you claim that there is power
dripping from the edges of your
fingers, that you can make me
pray for your touch, that my eyes
will turn black when you kiss me,
that god is just a pretty lie invented
for us all.

i laugh at all your tales, thinking
that you'll never curse me. we're
both immortal when we're together;
experiments of the night, the devil
and his mistress, two angels that
couldn't redeem well enough.

i begin to wonder when will picasso
reach us, if michelangelo has finished
the canvas he painted on your body
with ink, if monet can capture the
steel fragments building in my eyes
when you look at me, if botticelli will
tell us that we're made for history.

oh, star-crossed lover, we were made
to be venerated. we have a kingdom
all to ourselves. pray to me, too, if you
must. i'll be your queen until we set
heaven on fire.