I bathed that morning after,
With the notion that there were something to rid;
To relieve my external body of the crisp filth that I had thought to inhabit my pores and layer over my skin.
I step from the cubicle;
Groggy, in a mild stupor;
And as my heel faces the tile, I face the longing for her once more.
Alas, twasn't my organs that need be cleansed
but the common priorities I'd yet to mend.
Her hands harbor the healing properties of a divine sorceress- this, I'd sworn fallacious.
As a non-theistic man having a spiritual experience,
And a writer making mark on her transcendental disposition,
I make my reckoning;
Her fingers; slender slips of God
And eyes, irrefutably multi-dimensional portals;
Be it I ascend to Elysium, she chose me
Be it I ascend unto immortality,
she is my home.
And be it neither, may I render her the initial suspicion of acatalepsy.
I dab my face with a cotton sheet
Where she'd cupped my cheeks
and I make the rendition
Meeting eye-to-eye with my own reflection
that the words she spoke
Muttering into my mouth
And spilling down my throat
laced with an elixir used to conquer my body
Just as in as out.
The same could be said about the black tea she'd prepare for the both of us
Enthralling herself with what to sweeten and with what to prod
I suspect my mug tainted at the spout, lest she poison herself
with the utter suspicion that I was God.