Phantom Pain

Seeking the Sacred

It comes to this:
    Knowing the warmth of your hand
    Upon my touch-starved desert flesh,
    The soft caress, palm to palm,
    Fingers twining one to one,
    Tracing each knuckle bend, each milky nail. 

I wake:
    Remembering kisses
    Given and received,
    Continually offered:
    My sacrificial lips swollen with the rush
    Of amorous blood clamoring release.

The salty fruit of your skin
Lingers upon my tongue’s memory.
I know the musky tastings
Of your dark and secret places,
Revealed in frantic tactile urges
Pressing, wordless, forward.

I will never hold you.
Yet you are still mine, twined,
In mind and soul;
Closer than twins
Born one atop the other.
Long ago, you sealed your sacred self
Whole within my skin.

Now, the profane becomes Holy and I worship
Needing no other church.


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