While folded over me like an envelope
ready to mail, you sit there and think
and think and think while I try to cope
with lips so impossibly pink.
It takes two good hours before you tell me
that your body is a temple and love,
that infuriating thing, is not something we
should look into, except when it's from above.
I stare at you and try not to slur
when I say that that makes you your own god,
your own worshipper, your own designer,
and not exempt from being flawed.
Despite this you let me go, your hands thinner
than my ego; I decide then it's alright to be a sinner.