To me,
your hands might as well be gods;
if this is so,
I will gladly convert to polytheism.
Because with each breath,
the rise and fall of my chest,
praise is escaping
my body.
I worship
the feel of your hands
as they climb across the hills and valleys
of my being,
building me up into the person
you want me to be,
and with one grab
causing me to crumble;
I am left undone.
I find it completely ironic
that as my head is pressed to the floor
in reverence,
you lift me from under my arms and
tip my chin up,
telling me that
you are the one who should be
bowing down
because
if you are any sort of god
you need a dwelling place.
You press your lips close to my ear
begging to inhabit me;
because regardless if I am guilded in gold,
or if there a curtain separating those less holy
from my inner sanctum,
you assure me that
I am a temple,
and you are in rapture,
longing to immerse yourself in me
when we join together in glory.