your skin smells like honey,

soft as the silk I rest my head on,

whispering a prayer to a false idol

and a God so far away.



your lips taste of a heaven that I will never know of,

your eyes speak of a fiery passion that is reminiscent to that of Hell,

of sin and secrets,

of pride, lust, and glory.



and as the morning dew drips from my lips onto yours,

I clutch the rosary harder,

my symphony that of an angel song

that went undiscovered many scores ago

here I breathe

and pray

ironic of course

but still I clutch the idol close

and keep God far away.