The Taste of You

Does your heritage seep through your pores when you exert yourself? I mean, if I tasted you would I know your history. Deep down in the bowels of your soul. In the holiest of holies, would I know your divinity from the sweetness of your body odor. All that is you. Detailed with the edge of fingers, lips, and breath. If I inhale your scent, could I know your inclinations. Adorn your body in holy oil, wash your feet in holy water. Traverse your molecules with gentle lips. Massage your tension so to relieve your ancestors of their burdens. Fold you like origami. I have a tendency for the dramatics. For the acrobatics and the splendor of showmanship. Devotion. Commitment. It’s the altar of you. It’s all you.


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