Smoke and Lavender

There were men who undressed as if they were doing something forbidden.

The priest always smelled like incense and laundry detergent.

I still remember thinking, as a teenager, that holiness probably smelled exactly like that:

like fabric

that had never really touched a body.

Later, men lay beside me whose T-shirts smelled of smoke, lavender, and night air.

And somehow I felt even more ashamed afterwards.

Some men even apologized while kissing.

At night, so many things suddenly felt more permissible.

Men wrote things

they would have deleted immediately in daylight.

In the dark, they suddenly wanted to be held.

The priest often spoke about temptation

as if it were something

that came from outside of us.

Never like something

breathing beside you at night.

There were men

who touched my body without hesitation

but could not bear my gaze the next morning.

In the morning, the room still smelled of smoke and lavender.

I still remember

how automatically I folded my hands

before falling asleep.

Samu