The Seventh Day

part iv

Nothing completes me

Like when he’s

Two fingers deep.

I can feel him

In every cell of my skin

In every exhale

In every hair standing on end.

His eyes are controlled.

He knows what he’s seeing.

He curls them

Perfectly

And makes my breast bone

Rise to the heavens.

How blessed to have

An apostle

Kneeling between my thighs.

Nothing fills me,

Like he does

When I make him

Pray to god

For a testimony

Of release

And euphoria.

I reach into him

And pull out the sacred texts

That put the Bible to shame

For what could be as holy

As a man finding himself again.

I swallow his communion,

And know why church ceilings 

Are so magnificent-

Looking up at him

Seeing his eyes closed in prayer,

His jaw alone

Better than the architecture

Of the highest chapel-

Looking up at him

Is a better sight

Than the creation of Adam.

For the man created

From scratch before me

Will always move me

More than a tale

Of a man in a garden.

He holds me

Like the transcripts

They pulled from the sea,

Except he believes in me,

And I will never put faith

In a God,

As long as this man

Pulls my essence 

From my very core.

He puts the angels to shame

For how bright is a halo,

When his smile surely 

Is the greatest gift from god?

There is no body

Better crafted than his.

I could stare at him longer than historians did David.

His lines shift and move under my hands,

Grip tight in my hair

As I hold his thighs to the bed

And push star light into him.

This truly must be

How God felt creating man.