Honeysuckle

Her,

Tasting me like

Honeysuckle -

I am in bed with a girl,

And we are building a church:

Her mouth is my confessional,

My sternum her altar,

And I am told

This is blasphemy in itself

I am told,

This is sin

This is sin

In its purest form,

The way the smell of her

Is my melatonin,

The sight of her:

My refuge

To hold sin in hand

And turn it tender,

Turn it benevolent:

I won’t let holiness hunt me anymore

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