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 


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. 


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