When your fingertips become pure devotion. When your skin opens its prayer book She will come to you half-dressed like your hands. She will fit the shape of your longing like a flower becomes a glove for the sky.
It is late at night but I am doing my best to paint Your picture. Hands fly away come back with Your scent. Eyes go blind then return as the light behind Your face. It is late at night the fire of the world is an ember within my breath. I am painting Your presence with my body rolling within the waves of a single pulse daubing beautiful suns onto the darkness. I am doing my best to picture You into a space that can be held in the heart like a portrait of love.