ribbons

It still smells of you when you leave, 

spicy jasmine coupled in with shots of honey. 

It’s always made me haywire,  

blood pulsing, turpentine lodged in my 

throat every time I inhale. 

Picturing hands splayed, hair a black mass of 

matter consuming my bed.  

I feel like sand upon the beach,  

being swallowed up by waves, sun rays  

laughing at my drowning. There’s an art to it,  

one only she can see.  

And I am a sculpture. 

Pure white essence mixed with cardinal sin, and  

falling before her as if in service.  

A mortal worshiping the deities,  

the muse devoted to the artist, 

piety in her touch.  

How will you express your praise?