We are improbable constellations, all but fallen into place.
Not only thoughts, but intention,
physical strokes of humanity.
and I can hold the happenstance of you in my hands,
as I never could before.
The skinned bone of romance presents itself:
the white marrow of the moon,
white marrow of us,
godhood in the night sky,
made in summer’s image and obscured by want.
The temple’s drenched in wine;
my eyes follow the flesh, interrupted by sun.
Your champagne skin, your violet witness,
the getaway of our exchange,
both by mouth and other touch.
These are my apologetics,
this is my sorry exposé:
give me all the hell in the world.
I couldn’t be a martyr any other way,
even if I tried.
The temple’s drenched in wine, The temple’s bittersweet.
The cardinal religion of your look,
this communal afterglow.
There’s no deficit of prayer, but rather,
a collection of gestures which exist from it.
You are an allowance of pipe dreams,
and all my shameless abandon.
Another chance at an aphrodisiac
a waltz away, at most.