Love is holy.
That is why i practice on my knees:
Begging for Your eyes to catch mine,
Praying for Your fingers on my skin,
Waiting for Your lips to form my name.
i will sing Your hymns —
i will write Your gospels —
i will wear Your thorns —
i will drink Your blood —
Bruises on my shins mean nothing,
Nail marks in my flesh don't hurt,
Tearstains adorn my cheeks,
Fire cleanses my spirit
And my body remains for You.
my tongue calls out dead languages,
Committing my soul to Your rapture.
Yea, though i walk near death,
i shall fear no other,
And i will long to dwell in Your house
For all of my days.
Amen.
Worship
[Rain patters softly in the background, thunder rumbles far off in the distance]
I'm running out of ways to say I love you.
I've invented a thousand languages --
No, you may not hear them --
That have died on the journey
From synapse to lips.
I've constructed new alphabets --
No, you may not read them --
That have evaporated on the road
From hand to pentip.
So, here I sit,
Shackled to my writing desk,
Waste basket of my mind overflowing
With trite half-confessions,
Pastiches of melodrama,
Shakespearean declarations.
If this is my best, is it worth it to love you at all?
Maybe better to yearn -- [pause]
Maybe better to crave -- [huffs]
Maybe better to lust -- [hums, frustrated]
Maybe [phone buzzes] better to covet from afar
Than to hold you near.
Thus: I do not love you.
I cannot love you.
I am only --