You’re the proverbs in my mind, the John 3:16 that turns over inside of me- even if that’s
I am religious in a way that my god does not wear white,
but drinks his coffee black because his lips are like sugar
You are the sin I am confessing, the word that comes to me in my time of need and the being I say my Hail Marys for
Your lips are like wine, blessed, and they are mouthing something to me while I scroll through the pages in a fruitless attempt to find parables that justify this
I’ve found Eden in your breath, and it feels like my skin is etched with gold, like North Star of your love.
I am not a saint, but a martyr, and even when I fail to find my faith, you resurrect like on Easter Sunday- gifting your wisdom that reeks like like gold, frankincense and myrrh.
The letters according to you stating that it will be okay have been written on my mind in permanent ash, running deep in my veins with the way that you make me feel like I could turn water to wine.
When you’re around me I feel sacrilegious, the way you have your hand wrapped around my thoughts makes me question my beliefs because
the facts aren’t as easy to fall asleep with as heaven is, sometimes
and I don’t want to ever read scripture again if it isn’t about the way that you look during the summers
My church has no damnation or forbidden fruit, it has stories and you, and the prophetic power that I felt when you asked me who my god was