we feel we are broken: ‘you, kissing temples.
    i, stuck in church.’
    but broken implies a previous wholeness,
so we settle for fragmented,    so we are all a little bit each other.
    trading pieces: Sicilian defense and we’re all playing white. 
our monologues sink to soloquities    as our thoughts filter in third person limited. 
stained glass kaleidoscope: a selfish mosaic of rejected monasticism.
    oh, what we wouldn’t give for Gabriel.