Hymn

I dream about you more and more now. Some nights I dream about caressing each cut that you have ever put on your body, and sealing it with a kiss.

So whenever you look at the scars, they don’t remind you of the frenzy that drove you, to hurt, malign yourself like this. I seal each and every single one so that all you will remember are my lips on your porcelain skin.

Kiss them so they don’t remain scars at all, but become tiny etchings, little reminder of me, to you.

And somewhere by the crashing waves, I lay you down on a sandy beach, letting the moonlight bathe you in a cadaverous glory. A clandestine romance, unlike any other as the sand roams around your body, as do I, getting everywhere. And I lightly trace your scars with idle touches so very full of meaning, to me and to you.

More kisses, in spots here and there; on your little toes, your elbows and your knees. So if someone were to kiss you, on places on your body. They would not intrude upon its little curiosities where I left my mark, on the night when Elune shined so luminous in Eden and the sand got everywhere.

Leaving peculiar little shrines upon you that shall only ever belong to me, till the end of times.

I feel guilty as I fall deeper into your kisses, as my hand wanders and touches you in places that make you moan so very sweetly. For your body is a wonder, a most sacred art of the Creator, and I am but an intruder hell bent on destroying it my course fondles.

So I trace my fingers so very lightly on the curves of your belly, writing a story in a language yet unknown to man, and you giggle, serenely sweet, as I linger on your for hours at time. With each caress I feel I scribble onto you a different secret to the universe, as if by divine will. Hidden to all ordinary men even as you bare them in plain sight.

The way you look at me, with the longing of a hundred thousand years, of star crossed lovers sharing their one moment left frozen in the fabric of time and space, of an ache so very strong.

I look back at you, drenched in the ordinary. A mortal with a goddess underneath him, a blasphemous thing if one ever was, so each word of love that I might ever utter to you, no matter how beautiful, would nothing more than heresy.