write a sermon for me.

make it didactical

tell the congregation of my body—

the harsh lines,

the soft places,

the burns and birthmarks,

the places you kiss in the dark.

tell them where to find salvation,

"there, in the dip of his clavicle,

is everything you will ever need."

teach them how to pray,

"whisper you are so, so, soft three times,

and you will have your God."

sing to them

of my valleys of skin,

the mountain of my backside—

which you climb, effortlessly—

the sun that falls as my eyelids do,

flames licking the sky before that final hiss,

a kiss of fire and ash,

of everything, ending.

tell them of your journey across the ice—

that middle place that excites us,

scares us,

leaves us numb and cold and wet,

sends us spiralling in a whirldwind of what?

love? lust?

pleasure is not separate from either;

teach them that, too.

remind them of the joy that awaits them,

awaits you,

when my skin is found pulsing

beneath your fingertips.

write a sermon for me.

recite it at the edge of the bed,

into my neck.

whisper something sweet

something worth the wait

something i would write

(i have all the words, after all),

something like,

"you are a glass of wine.

i will sip you slowly."