Forgotten Gods: Broken Glass
That’s when it hits me. I know him. His face, his eyes, his smell, his…taste. It was mine. Wasn’t it? He is mine? No, this is wrong. He is wearing the wrong clothes…the man I know…knew…he wore no shirt. I’d smack him gently, laughing and demanding he wear a shirt. I didn’t want to share what was mine. I continue to search the priest’s face.