warm:

Hands clasped in prayer,

I worship the god of monsters.

Nails digging into your breast,

I am nothing but fangs.

Is this so bad, so wrong?

Your body was made for sin,

and I am here to corrupt.

We could stay in this bliss,

this madness of flesh.

Tangled like ivy,

I see the creator in you.

We can no longer tell hunger from longing.

Surely a caress would could set one aflame.

Every whispered word becomes kindling,

your confession is hellfire.

I just want to get warm,

to curl up by your hearth

and burn.

To weather the storm,

look out over the surf.

I cannot will myself to calm.

I still feel the ache.

Shoulders heavy from carrying the burden

of your memory.

A library of stories,

and with pen and paper I continue.

New notes, another chapter,

perhaps an epilogue.

But however it’s told,

it will be a story of redemption.