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I don’t think she’s capable of normal love. So I let her; I always let
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her play. This is our brand of balance, unbalanced. This is how we work, dysfunctional. All of these fucked up tricks, it’s why I love her. Not in spite of it. Because of. But she keeps the knife sharpening, the sin collecting, all inside for now. The idea flits away, the sparkle in her eyes dances then hides, and she pulls me closer. Her warmth surrounds me, and she smells like paradise. She is my heaven. And then we’re tangled in each other. Her lips touch mine and I soar to a place I forget exists between trips. I see only her, hear, smell, know just her. Simple, singular. I’m wrapped up in her as if we are the same. It all comes crashing into me, heavier than bricks, more important than life. Her skin, the smell of her hair, the soft pink of her lips, the way she trails her fingers over me sending shivers everywhere. Every time is like the first time. All over again. Just as perfect. Just as soul changing. She makes me arch my back, eyes closed, fingers and toes tense, and this is where I’m meant to be. She tugs my hair and the ache burns from my scalp through every cell. If the scratches she leaves down my back are mistakes, I’ll happily make them for the rest of my life. This is why everything she does is allowed, welcomed. This. This is my church, my entire religion. She’s what I worship, where, the only thing I’ve found worth sanctifying in this fucked up world. She makes the horrible bearable. She
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