How ironic that your most played songs are an ode
to the devil, and my most played songs are an ode to you.

Our love was punctuated by music. You held it so close
to your chest, I had to peel it off your fingertips.

From the moment I met you, you were linked to an album
of *** and lust and love and guilt. You listened
to the whole thing in one day. Your favorite was the song about doom.

You always handed me your phone when you drove, “Play
something new.” When you liked the song, you drove slower. If
the roads were quiet, you would drum on my left leg
with your right hand, putting my song in your body, you always

kissed me at red lights. You picked the music when we cooked
but it was always an album I had shown
you. I cooked and you cleaned, and you always worried when you ran
out of things to clean, but I never gave you a task because
when your hands went idle, they locked around my waist

and these were the moments I fell in love. Our love stopped
quietly. Music poured from your bedroom that did all the yelling
and wailing and pounding for you. You played drums

at your church and on me and on you, and I wonder if this pounding
on your legs is too your chosen self harm. Was loving

me your chosen religion? Am I more heaven or hell?
I left church and only fondly remember the music.

Your favorite band is Make Them Suffer, which is how I imagine
Hell and how you imagine our love.

Relationships are religion and I don’t wonder
if there’s a god when I’m in love.