I stroke my fingers across your architecture
A hallowed structure of flesh and bone
My temple of worship where I go to pray, eat
Sleep and call my home.
My fingers and lips touch your face
I put my ear close to hear home's working sounds echo through bone.
I drink in your heart
Your taste and your thoughts
Our souls dine on caviar of intimate conversation
My senses are full of you
*
Losing you is losing my religion.
Losing my senses.
Losing my home.
Thirsting for water.
Eating stale crackers of small talk
while my soul’s ribs poke through from meager dining.
About the Creator
Sloan Li
Humiliated by a family member for sending away for publishing materials somewhere around the first grade, I locked my voice in a drawer. It's been too long, and it's time to open the drawer again. Imperfect and exposed- this is me.
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