I don’t know his name. But in the three seconds after the shudder, before the footsteps fade, there is a silence more sacred than any cathedral. It’s the silence of two broken people who, for just one moment, didn’t hurt each other.
It was in a cracked tile bathroom at a truck stop off Interstate 9. A place that smells of bleach, stale cigarettes, and desperation. A place where the lights flicker like a dying heartbeat. gloryhole swallow faith
There’s a hole in the wall. Chest-high. Patched with duct tape and graffiti. On my side, I’m just knees on cold concrete. I can’t see his face. I don’t know his name, his sins, or if he voted the same way I did. I know nothing. I don’t know his name
We spend our whole lives building walls. Drywall. Ego. Prejudice. Then we drill a single hole in them just to remind ourselves that we are not an island. It was in a cracked tile bathroom at