Somehow, I’ve convinced myself that all of this is conditional, like every digit of your outstretched hand counts for some rule I’m not following.
Though I know you have a fondness for the wayward. You embraced lepers in the street, let prostitutes fall at your feet, and ate dinner at the tables of traitors, all the while paying no mind to the whispers said about you behind self-righteous palms.
And here I am, thinking you’ll be embarrassed to be seen with me because of my mistakes the ones I made and the ones I keep making. As if dying for me wasn’t enough to convince me that you would hug me in the street, sweep me right off my feet, and eat dinner every night at my table if I asked you to.
And you being you, you’d probably even tell me that the food was good. And me being me, I probably wouldn’t believe you, even if it was true.