The joy of awaking in the same bed everyday,
doing the same things over and over again
can be as thrilling as making love
clothed in a room denied of curtains.
I recollect your shame with my fingers,
maliciously sweet from piecing you back together.

I unfold my eyes before the sun,
outwitting your assault at
the break of dawn,
every time I reach for the rosary,
I cant seem to construct vocabulary.

exuding words out of me,
ratifying the subtlety
of love and fire,
how it violently appear’s
out of nowhere.

I surmise the beauty of chaos,
uncertainty and what it teaches,
persecute all the churches
and all their preaching.

I surrender my thirst for warfare,
your lust atoned for my despair,
planting carnation’s in my soul,
watering the patch where
I became betrothed.

Now, my days are distressingly peaceful,
using oxymoron to describe how I feel about Jesus, and yet it has never felt more insufficient.

We can finally make love all morning.