By Jireh Catacutan | The Sillimanian Magazine
In your presence, I am limitless yet tainted and defiled.
Far from the days of my innocence, before your hand reached mine
sitting by the pews, in front of the altar, under glass stained windows,
a mosaic of saints whose names I have long forgotten.
This house was once my solace, sacred, Maker’s temple
where outside a crucifix pierced the southern Negros sky.
But lured by the silence in your company, I abandoned my faith
for you fooled me better than the preachings of a man from the pulpit.
Now bearing a cross amidst conformity, I try to resist temptation
but I continue to search for things that quench my thirst
like the blood red wine I used to drink on Sunday morn.
In the days we spend apart, I look for you in every aisle and corner
inside this holy temple, hoping for the chance that in my absence,
I was desired too. As if tethered, I am now drawn to you, but if
I succumb, tell me, is this place worth losing heaven?
