Worship

I didn't plan to pray—

but your mouth is a pulpit

and I am born for kneeling.

You tasted like undone promises,

like wine spilled on hotel sheets,

like thunder caught mid-moan.

Your sweat wrote psalms

on the altar of my throat,

your hands carved scripture

between my thighs.

We didn’t speak.

We chanted.

We sinned like saints

who’ve learned pleasure

is holier than silence.

And when you came—

not softly, not shy—

I swear the stars turned

just to watch.