Work Text:
allow me.
my hands reach for you on stage,
have you stopped to notice?
you move until you settle
with your legs around mine,
and do you hear it when my breath catches?
there is something in my lungs
that i can’t seem to exhale.
this unnamed thing that some might call
love,
but which i, for intents and purposes,
will call worship.
worship is for gods, you say? so allow me:
your feet: their gentle arch and the way
your toes curl if only i touch you in the right place.
your calves: how they frame my hips when
you place yourself above me, on a stage or in this room.
your thighs: and how they flex under my
fingers when they dig into your flesh, alongside my lips and teeth.
your hips: which move in such ways that
could force me to my knees (a more complete image of worship).
your stomach: the grayscale climbing up your torso
from a touch that i did not administer, and isn’t that unfair?
your waist: how my hands fit perfectly into
the gentle dip between your hip and ribs. for me to hold.
your back: how it arches, line of beauty.
you allow me in, and do you know i’d never hurt you?
your chest: your rib cage traps a heart
that has been beating too fast for too long. please, allow me…
your shoulders: which carry the weight of a
dead god to the open arms of worshippers (but it’s you, you).
your arms: the way you hold me because
i need holding more than worship, and you see right through me.
your hands: which, like mine, don’t ever know
quite where to place themselves (wherever they wish, really, wherever you wish).
your throat: lying exposed, for a fiercer beast
to bite. but let me kiss you, there, and there, and there.
your lips: for songs to spill forth and
for me to capture when the curtain falls on your brave performance.
do you understand now?
worship is a language
that requires no spoken word.
just two hands reaching,
and i have been reaching for eons.
did you think my touch meant nothing?
this is a wanting i can’t shake,
a breath i have been holding for too long.
so please,
allow me.