Your hips are an alter,
and I long to worship at your altar,
to adore where your embers ignite.

the desire is slow,
a steady storm in my chest
not to claim, but to taste,
to drown in your cave of breath
that you give me.

I want to write hymns only in the language
of your body,
to swallow your breath
as if it is a gift,
to melt into,
and between you,
until there is only the wind
that holds our names.

this ruin is soft,
devotion masquerading as desire
let me peel you back,
again, and again,
until you shine like stars
across my lips.