Sacrilege

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. 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s