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?