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.
Given and received,
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.