floral pattern on the bed
chipped paint on the dresser
woven rug on the floor
the dog on his pillow
faded jeans on the chair
frames on the table
(you know the one
with us at the fair)
your pillow next to mind
my arm on your empty side
I lay there with nothing but
you on my mind.

the maker adores you
and every strand of your DNA
a precious embodiment of his love
his fingers are clasped in yours
20 stitches of love

the laughter and song travelled up the stairs
and parked themselves in her room
she cried for the joy and
she cried for the brokenness

woven patterns floated heavenward
as her sights became swirls
and distant images

skin so perfect and warm
chest to chest.
vulnerability.
discomfort to feel comfort.
the requirements for mortal passion.
soon our souls will go heavenward
and our bodies to decay
with no more skin on skin.
a beautiful tragedy
overcoming this personhood
yearning for the breathless,
tingling nights.
not ready to bloom,
not quite ready to die.
skeletal hands grasp
for the promise of fullness.
satisfaction miles beyond.

but oh,
your skin on my skin.

Come, let's find a king
with the answers to
our existential wonderings.
His royalty will shield
our eyes from the false
and reveal truths our
consciences lack.
The feast he prepares
will leave us satisfied
beyond all hunger
we've ever known.
Our broken bodies
will be mended.
The dirt under our
nails will be gone.
And our raw, scraped,
shaking knees will
kneel for no lies
and heal through
his desire for redemption.
He will open the golden gates
gladly and with welcome,
but far from sight as
he maintains an
air of mystery.

A beautiful king
we will find.

A heavenly, wholesome king.

Desiring a beautiful soul
to complement mine.
Still and silent and
full of confidence.

Like mine isn't.