The Psalm of Ashen Silk

I go for my son.

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A lie, whispered to God and myself every Friday as I lead Quasimodo from the sanctuary of Notre Dame to the sin of the street faire. I go for his smile, for his enjoyment. More lies.

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I go for her: The Embermage.

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She is temptation. She is forbidden. She is sin-yet one I cannot resist. Her fire calls to a darkness deep within me, stirring feelings and urges that must remain buried. For months, I've watched from the safety of the crowd: to look, but to never, ever touch.

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Until one night, when I get far too close. She perceives me, beckons to me... then touches me, leaving her scarf as a favor of the occasion. I should discard it, surrender it to my priest at my next confession, or Hell, even burn it. But I don't.

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I allow her name to fester on my lips, a wretched, sinful psalm, and desire one thing above all else, even my God's forgiveness:

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The night she'll scream my name, not His.