Worship

another poem

I am the silk lace cupping her breasts

I am the rouge brushed on her cheekbones, dampening with her mood

I am the string of fabric rubbing at her weeping skin and I am the triangle on her pelvis

The hair on her head touches mine as she leans forward

Heavy with a product she can’t pronounce

I am the coarse hair in her armpits

I am the prickled skin she hides beneath her tights

I am the stray eyebrow hairs she fusses over in the mirror

I grow back

Because I want to see her

I am her chipped fingernails painted dark red

She is a very busy woman and I am the notepad she writes her dates in

Her pen is loud against the paper as she gives me her phone number

I am that too

I am every digit that differentiates her contact from my own

I am each missed call and unanswered message from a friend

She doesn’t reach out to them

Just to me

Her fingertips graze my forearm and etch into my skin

I am tattooed permanently

She is the heart beating inside my chest

When it falters she will pump me with life again

I can feel her breath on my lips, hot

For once in my life I am waxing

I am ecstatic but it will soon turn to shame

And I will walk away from another beautiful woman

She will cease to exist without me

Because I am her bones and her guts

I am her tissue and muscle and blood and every nerve ending

I can make her throw it all up if I want to

But so can she

She can open my mouth with her manicured nails

Everything spilling out until I am in the palm of her hand

I am small now

Too small to keep myself standing

And I am much more of her than she is of me

She towers over me now

A cathedral

I fall to my knees and pray