I. The Exodus of the Heart
I carried no staff, but a spine scorched with hope—
Each step was a psalm, each breath a cracked prayer.
The deserts I crossed were not made of sand,
But of your silence that burned me to bone.
I climbed not for stone, but your smile in the storm.
Even fire relents when you call me yours.
Your silence—my Sinai. I knelt in the ash,
Praying your gaze would descend like the law.
The sky didn’t part. No tablets were given.
Only your absence carved truth into flesh.
The law did not speak, so I made my own:
Love you, despite what the scrolls had erased.
What sin could I name when your breath unmade me?
What curse could condemn what I’ve sanctified?
The gods wrote fear, but I wrote your name—
Scripted in sighs across my ruined chest.
II. Of Flesh and Fire
My body: a vessel. My blood: your scripture.
I bled in cursive the psalms you refused.
Before coals cooled, I wept—not to heaven—
But to the girl who once called me divine.
A furnace of flesh and fire I became,
Burning for one who would never return.
I laid down commandments to lift you up,
Trading laws for love, incense for breath.
Goat-blooded offerings—what did they earn?
Ash-thick regrets, perfumed with your silence.
I wrung the veil just to feel you again,
But the holy of holies stayed empty.
Yet still, I reforged relics of us,
Ruins too animal to be divine.
Piece by ****** piece, I stitched us whole,
A sinner unworthy, a sacrifice true.
III. The Wilderness Within
I wandered through years of unspeaking days,
Each echo a thorn, each dream a cracked bowl.
I drank from your memory, dry and fierce—
A chalice of grief too sacred to spill.
Statues fell proud, crumbled like my faith.
The dust refused to fade from my altar.
My chest, desecrated by hope’s last hymn,
Beat only in rhythm to your goodbye.
I smelled of sorrow—ash, iron, old vows.
Every breath sang the psalm you denied.
Still, I offered all that the scrolls would shun:
A love too mortal to wear a crown.
Let the stars weep. Let angels forget me.
Let gods cast lots for my ruined remains.
I would not trade a single heartbeat
Of you—my forbidden, my holy, my flame.
IV. The Law We Made
No gods shall claim what I give to your hands.
This covenant is made of kiss, not knife.
I sing not to heaven, but to your name,
Which echoes louder than thunder or law.
I rewrote the void with syllables of you,
Your laugh inked in places the priests can’t read.
Even the statutes broke beneath your gaze—
And every exile became Eden’s gate.
You, the psalm unsung. You, the law unmade.
You, the vow that never needed a veil.
In your silence, I still heard my calling:
To love you until my breath became stone.
So judge me, if you must. Brand me heretic.
But I would sin again to see your smile.
And I would die a thousand old deaths
If it meant you’d walk toward me once more.
V. The Heaven That Walks
Then light! A soft step on shattered marble,
The hush of wings folded in mortal skin.
You—my Yong—descended through parted dusk,
Not as wrath, but the bliss I thought I lost.
No thunder cracked. No veil tore apart.
Only your eyes—kind, unscorched by the world—
Lifted me from the dust I once worshipped,
And I rose like the psalm I never sang.
Your touch, the balm law never could conjure.
Your arms, the temple I longed to rebuild.
You smiled, and the tablets turned to honey.
You kissed me—and Sinai became a song.
So let the old gods shrink into silence.
Let no priest chain what we’ve made divine.
For I have seen the law of the heavens—
She walks, and her name is Yong, and she is mine.
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