I pull you in, the bridges of our noses battle,
A rude reminder,
That's it's the closest we can physically get,
This is the most skin can dig into skin.
I breathe you in mouthfuls.
Like candy that wasn't mine but given to me anyway.
You smell of pink gum and cheap perfume and old rum
And a shop I've never been to and I wouldn't want to and I don't mean to
But its her voice I hear in all of your sighs,
I tell myself all of that is in hindsight,
But sometimes at night
when the phantom of your mouth purses around the flesh at my chest,
I wonder if the folds of her skin on your tongue taste of me (and your sins).
And I pray
the way your touch stank of her, to her, you stink of me.
'Perfect' is too David by Michaelangelo - stone.
Give me scars,
uneven tan lines
a lazy stubble.
Give me parts of you you pull a blanket on, around me.
Give me that hair growth you've waxed every month religiously.
Give me the orange peel butt that ruins your beach pictures.
Give me the earliest graze of the male pattern baldness.
Give me calloused hands and dry elbows.
Give me all that you didn't know was ugly until you were told by the society that it was - everything that makes you frown at the mirror.
Humans are so beautiful in all their naked glory.
Don't try to give me 'perfect'.
Give me human.
To worship at every inch my skin runs over, I think,
he comes, slippery footprints from the water gently running at the gates.
He kneels under the domes,
leather in his pants, leftovers on his lips and filth in his hands.
It is not prayers that he offers,
(pelting flowers at the stone),
She is not his goddess,
(this is not his home).
Ringing bells in a temple aren't alarms at all - false or not, he thinks.
I tell myself, "The Gods must be asleep",
or sipping at his whiskey, the stench of, a sad excuse of a kiss.
Why must the goddess bleed for an atheist's dirty sins?
My lover boy, he tells me, that's why religion is problematic.
'My body is a temple' - a temple wrapped in neon lights looks like a love hotel, he thinks.