The line between divine and mortal
Is drawn across the floor of his apartment.
The tiles soothe and their pattern,
Engraved on my knees,
Worships his soles, while the rest is mine.

His hands, made out of satin, are not human:
Without a single contact
They lift me up to meet heaven,
But the Garden of Eden has nothing for me,
So I shut my eyes.

We will only linger at the border, lips to lips;
Listening to the temptation,
Tasting the apple,
And trusting — trusting above all.

At the line between divine and mortal,
We do not find shame.
We only paint the image of God over each other,
While his handprints sting above my jawline
And I sing my prayers in form of sighs,
Right unto his tongue.
Vertigo, devotion, a gentle lullaby —
A plane beyond and under.

He answers those prayers by painting
A trace of care across the handprints,
A timeless and elusive piece on my collar.

My body is baptised, leaving no inch...