(Un)holy

by Padfoot

Even God seems unholy
In those hours
when my body is pressed against yours

I would mistake your shoulder blades for wings
Your hair for a halo
Your eyes for the light
at the end of the long, long tunnel

I never learned how to pray
So I press my lips to yours
Hope my deeds
will drown out the silence
of the words I do not know

I would make an altar of your bed
A sermon of the words you whisper against my skin
A funeral rite of our last goodbye

- I found religion where it shouldn't be: in the warmth of your arms