Maybe it is an olive leaf (branch)
that looks like a file folder
she hand-delivers to my desk under the stairs,
something I have or don’t need,
yet appreciate as if
I ache for an excuse to again
say I’m sorry,
when I’ve said it so many times,
rehashing it in my head,
it no longer sounds real,
we all live lives without real remorse,
pained less for the pain we cause
than the guilt we carry on our shoulders
and in our heads, and now,
looking into her deep eyes,
I see not what I ached for,
but a reflection of my own guilt,
not imposed, she does not accuse,
self-attained,
I am the other unforgiven thief
on that hill with Christ,
the one who did not seek
forgiveness fully enough
to know that I might meet
his father in heaven,
excommunicated,
almost too heavy a cross to carry,
I can barely look at her and not cry.
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