The man has purple smudges punched in his jaw, he is wide eyed with guilt. Try telling him he is loved, he’d probably spit in my face.
I hold my heart in my teeth, but he sees me: sees my need to tell him of true love, of the One Who went to hell for him. I am owned by this Love; and can’t convince him? Why should I convince anyone, except that this guy is bruised deep, his life ebbing. I turn to leave but he coughs. This time it is blood. We begin to speak: as the Sacred story weaves our names in Its reasons. Then It owns us. Grace does that every time.
Am sitting here still staring at how nothing else owns me.
Innerdialects 
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