As I think of his hands, few words come to my mind.
The thought of his fingers tend to leave my mouth dry, all moisture retreating until my jaw feels glued shut.
I attempt to tell people about it, but they beg me to give him
C O M P A S S I O N
"You don't know what he went through."
C O M P A S S I O N
"He needs you."
C O M P A S S I O N
"If you crossed Jesus, wouldn't you want him to give you
C O M P A S S I O N ?"
Yeah, I would. But I'm not him.
©poetic_peh
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