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Holy Grounds
Dustin Ryder

Your voice tastes like honeysuckle, coating my lips and staining my skin. 
I’m in a place of worship, down on my knees begging you to bless me. 
Tracing freckles like forbidden scriptures—I want to consume all the sins 
you’ve buried. My hands will wander over the gold of your skin, hesitancy 
in hovering—I don’t want to tarnish something so Holy. Your breath 
ghosts my neck, forgiveness trailing in its wake. That’s all I need—the 
blessing in my ear as you tell me my name. Are you making me Holy, or 
am I destroying the divine? There’s a pull of hair, an urgency in the way 
our eyes clash. Words have always failed us, nerves holding our hands 
and butterflies breaking past our lips. There’s a cataclysm in my soul, 
hands trembling as I can feel the concrete kiss my knees once again. I’m 
corrupting Holy grounds, spilling sins like wine. Desperation as I clutch 
her sides, corruption bruising the delicacy of her skin. Her words bounce 
in the hollow of my chest, cracking ribs and finding the heart I thought I’d 
lost. I’ll watch the blue of my fingertips light like fire, ghosting her lips like 
the blind finding God. I fear she doesn’t know how Holy she is—that those 
that only take don’t diminish those that are ethereal. There’s a smashing 
of lips, copper and tiger lilies mixing. Forgiveness smears my skin, her 
fingernails grazing prophecies on my chest. She tells me I’m more than the 
sins that have consumed my soul, that I was created with the darkest parts 
filling the sky. This doesn’t mean I’m not Holy, as she shows me the ink that 
still stains her hands as she blessed me. She reminds me that constellations 
only shine when there’s a lack of light.