He folds in on himself that way, creased harshly; he was crossing an infinitesimal line that fate had drawn. Like a fragile bird the action made him innocent, careful, and astonishingly ardent. It was full of such grace that the old man’s smile did not wager less than beautiful; it was full of the pain that the widow’s eyes would not fully encompass; it was the embodiment of the hope and strength that world’s finest didn’t have; it was the unrequited love that so many husbands had answered in that pining kiss to their newlywed; it was looking and not seeing; it was feeling – in the depths of oneself- the woven threads that separate into frayed edges- feeling that ran off that fray and into the emptiness to fill- like liquid fire- the things that cannot be written, just expressed.

Each thing he does with care, with absentminded routine, with rumination. He brushes the stained glass that no longer elicits its color; its source of light is dissipated in its setting proclivities. And so, he lights the candles in their russet holders, watching the carmine and orange manipulate the shadows- throwing them against the walls and dancing with them viscerally.

He dips his hands in the holy water, and like tears the beads drip onto his forehead, heart and shoulders, and carefully he breathes a whisper of a prayer: Could he be better in ways that only love allows? His eyes were dull and glazed over, wrapped in such a distracted refrain, lacing the truth with tacit lies.
“My soul to keep,” He buckles at the serrated edge in his cheek. “That is all I’m asking.”
And yet, the lights speak a volume he cannot hear.