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THE TASTE OF WORSHIP

The cinnamon taste of your lips;
Your eyes; drinking me like the moon,
Like the sea, like an unrepentant drunk;
Your hands pattering over my skin
Like baby feet seeking mother after a nightmare.
Your voice; a song, a lullaby, a siren's call.

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Oh love, the cinnamon taste of your lips.
Your tears: a prayer, a holy sacrifice;
My hands an altar, a shrine;
Burnt, blistered by your kiss.

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My heart is broken thing,
A carcass that rots in the sun.
I worship, I venerate and seek salvation
Between the cinnamon taste of your lips;
Your hips, my soul can grasp;
A liquid gasp and the mass is complete.

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