No love like the kind that walks in robes,
dripping with holy water and the sweat of sermons.
They call it freedom wrapped in obedience,
a paradox we are told will make sense
if only we kneel long enough.
But sense is slippery,
and the knees bruise too easily.
What is this love that chokes the loud,
that calls silence a virtue,
that kisses the forehead while gripping the wrist?
What is this love that claims the lost as trophies,
like rescue is ownership,
like home is a cage gilded by forgiveness?
I've seen the ones who fled it,
light burning behind their eyes,
but not the kind from candles on altars.
No, this is the light of the broken-open,
the shattered-then-rebuilt,
the light that bends because it is no longer trying
to be...
They speak in a tongue the faithful call bitter—
but bitter is just sweet stripped of its illusions.
They laugh in a way that feels like rebellion
but lands like relief.
And their love?
It has no anthem, no altar,
just the hum of being enough.
Do you hear it?
The hymn outside the stained glass?
It isn't blasphemy, it's a cry,
or maybe a whisper—
not for God, but for space,
for breath,
for a world where love doesn't tally souls.
And those who stayed,
those who love the walls of the church:
What will you do with this?
Will your love stretch wide enough
to make room for the escape?
Can your prayers let go of their targets,
allowing the arrows to fall where they may?
