Eden Never Closed

 

We met by the river, where the sun baptized the water with gold and you, in your linen dress, was one sermon I never heard in any church.

Back then, love was reckless.

We kissed like God wasn't watching.

You laughed like the wind owed you answers, and I touched you like Eden never closed its gates.

We were young then, so young, we thought passion could pay rent, and poetry could feed a home.

You brought me flowers you stole from graves, and said, “Dead people don’t mind sharing beauty.”

I laughed. I laughed so hard I forgot we were poor.

We were hungry, for bread, for touch, for something sacred.

So we carved religion into our bedsheets, worshipped each other’s bodies in ways that would shame the saints.

I traced verses on your naked back with my tongue.

You whispered ‘hallelujahs’, You and I know that never reached heaven.

The neighbors said we were a mess.

They were right.

We fought like thunder.

Loved like wildfires.

Apologized with bodies, not words.

You’d break things just to see if I’d fix them.

I’d bleed silence just to win.

Still, every night you crawled back; hair a battlefield, heart an altar.

And I welcomed you like wine into a church of sinners.

Now look at us.

Strangers passing in the street, pretending we don’t remember the smell of each other’s perfume.

You with your new perfume.

Me with my practiced smile.

Both of us wearing regret like Sunday best.

But I still visit that river.

Still write your name in dirt.

Still whisper your name, every time I remember how we loved, when we were young.

© amimoh_ombogo