Back to the Future

I did not expect holiness

to tremble in a touch—

a brush so faint

it could have been imagined,

yet it branded me with fire.

The line at church moved slow,

palms pressed to palms,

smiles offered like folded prayers.

I greeted my pastor,

stepped forward—

and the place I had left

was suddenly filled by him.

The one I once confessed to,

with careful words balanced

between reverence and desire.

Now here he was—

so near that the gentlest slide

of his back against mine

carved a question into my skin.

Do I step away—

abrupt, obedient,

like respect demands?

Or linger—

allowing the electricity

to whisper what my voice cannot?

For in that breath,

I stood at a crossroads:

the memory of what I surrendered

and the ache of what might never be.

A pull toward the fire of tomorrow,

a tug back to the vows of yesterday.

Somewhere between here and there,

my soul chose restraint

while my body memorized the nearness.

And I learned—

sometimes the holiest struggle

is not between sin and salvation,

but between letting go

and holding on

to what almost was.

Back to the future I go,

not to repeat,

not to betray,

but to carry the weight

of that moment’s flame—

a secret folded into the hymn of who I am,

a reminder that even desire

can teach devotion.

And still I hear it—

the silent echo of that touch,

pulling me forever

between here

and there.