i hear there's no flesh in heaven. but i stopped worshipping the moon because its swell glares like a cruel rendering of your throat, and why should i kneel before a cold imitation when you exist flushed and undimmed for revering
i heard(thought, once) that the carnal and the holy are indistinguishable in their earth-bound forms. in darkness your throat rises serpentine, devilish beneath the flesh. the night wails; isn't the moon just the whitened fingertip of michealangelo's god, pale with aching in its strain towards adam?
the blood moon tempts: a tender body, the forbidden fruit, and your mouth trembles in wanting. i'd like to think your throat would gleam in devouring, tossed back defiantly beneath the glaring moonlight; holiness only reflecting off the carnal; god, forsaken.
