The room is much too small for the two of us- an overly glorified wooden box lined with velvet and the will of God. Even so close together, I can barely make out the wings of your shoulder blades through the candle light. The urge to explore your open arms is an unforgivable sin and I cannot deny a saint the decadent taste of immorality.
You catch my wrist, and the shock of impact leaves me with bruises that bloom somewhere deep inside my soul, a rapture of blue and red that you neatly conceal under black wool and tall white collars. The click of your rosary reminds me of the way our teeth clash together when you’re angry.
I want to cleanse myself in the cold river of your eyes, but I settle for letting you kiss me. Each touch is a blessing, feather light against the windowpanes of my eyelids. My lipstick leaves a trail of red wine halos on your collar bone.
Through gritted teeth, you tell me we’re exploring what it means to be a sinner, even though I don’t believe you. This is confessional, a sacrilegious phenomena only experienced by those who have been cast out. I’ve never heard a story of your falling, but I can’t imagine you staying in utopia with a smile that human. You’re as tempting as the devil, and you laugh with every little death that shudders its way down my spine. The air is saturated with prayer, a hymnal chorus of I love you and God and please. Communion takes such strange forms in the realm of men, and I am no exception to the will of those above me.
This is my confirmation. I’ve dropped to my knees, devoted, and we’re so close to hell that I can feel bitterness rising in the back of my throat. It’s a flood. There is no paradise now, no shelter from the waking storm you like to call love. There’s nothing short of wrath in the way you kiss me and nothing short of lust in the way you hold me down. God himself may envy the bondage you have me in, your slave, but I’m far too haunted by your demons to see anything beyond the pride in your voice and the slow, dull taunt of greed that whistles past my vocal cords into the open air.
Aftermath is a mess of feathers, a bent halo, and a slew of bruises left by teeth that have never known mercy. I’m still murmuring broken promises against your heart, desperate for a respite against the heat of your skin and the fire burning in our souls. Everything that has ever meant something to me is reduced to kindling in the afterglow of sacrament. I glance, smile, and get one last ecstatic taste of you before my entire world goes black and I’m engulfed in flames. In the beginning, there was only passion. Now, all I can feel is love and betrayal so deep that is echoes in the deepest parts of my soul.
As close to hell as we both are, you still taste incredibly like heaven.