Journals of Serendipity

But we loved with a love that was more than love…

paper promises do not fly when uttered by the lips of matchstick liars. they burn faster than they are fulfilled.

It seems like every time I sit down to write about our bodies, I spin us something holy: our moans turned scripture, our mouths flooded with communion wine. I want to take you by the hips and build our gospel. Except, I wonder if I’m afraid to name you without the metaphor: like the honeysuckle holy of you would burn my tongue if I took it in vain. See, you leave sunspots on my vision. Your hands are softer than any altar and twice as sacred. Your mouth keeps me up at night, even when you are two cities over. Even when it’s been days without you in my bed. Even then. See, there is heat. And there is friction. And then there’s us, and we are something else, altogether. Some kind of burning. But you have never been all-consuming. You have never been Almighty. You are a pair of hands I never want to let go of, and maybe that’s its own religion, but maybe it isn’t. Maybe, I can still come to you on hands and knees, and it doesn’t have to be a kind of praying. It could be my mouth and your thighs, and the way you moaning my name splits the quiet. Maybe we don’t have to be a pocket of heaven to be just as beautiful. So, if I become more choir than angel, if you become more tenement than temple, if we stop trying so hard to be so sacred, we might find that heaven was never as gorgeous as we are.

I didn’t realize it, but the days came along one after another, and then two years were gone, and everything was gone, and I was gone.