She was once a doctor. I was training to be a priest.
We married in July I think. Our happiness was released.
We breakfasted and fasted.
We slept in separate beds.
The Pope came with a pick me up.
"I understand" was all he said.
This marriage of the ideals was a divorce of heart and head.
She operated quickly and stitched with golden thread.
Her scalpel cut, she stemmed the flow, my head swam at high mass.
There was no respite or relief, there was no way to pass.
Religion is the death of me and medicine her life.
She was a doctor and I a priest. Her husband and my wife.
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