after his lips brazed mine, i understood what churches meant to saints; death and rebirth and homecoming and ease. the artistry of our flesh meeting flesh, gentle grassroot heartbeats finding heaven in the moles on our shoulders, our inner thighs. he hums a hymn of becoming and i join the chorus: a kingdom of quiet wednesdays and leaving forget-me-nots on my pillowcase to bloom. murmurous, he sweetens my melancholy; our naked bodies left bare to the seasons, over and over again, unafraid. i part my gracious fingers and quilt for him a makeshift rosebush beneath blue eyes and summery glances. our testimony is this: underneath july starlight, victory is found in the warmth of our xanthic chapel; a yearlong love story left zen in our delicate rapture