She is a temple
carved from light and shadow.
Every curve a sacred line
drawn by the Gods.
Her skin,
the smooth marble
of some forgotten altar,
warm and golden,
as if the sun hides beneath it.
In her eyes, a heaven unfolds—
a forest and fields of gold,
stars, though not distant,
but burning—alive, and close.
Her lips are a chalice,
full, offering,
but never quite giving away
all at once.
She speaks like hymns
whispered through ancient halls,
echoing with secrets
of the divine.
And in those miracle lines,
oh, that delicate path
from her jaw to her collarbone,
is a place where my name
catches in her sigh,
and the curve
of her neck
cradles the prayers
I never knew I had.
Veiled in silk and desire,
wrapped in the softness
of twilight,
the arc of her body
holds me captive
as she turns.
Her form lingers
in the corner of my eye.
I would sculpt the world
to match her shape.
She is a temple,
a sanctuary of flesh
and spirit.
As I am drawn below
and kneel to the Goddess,
I seek her inner sanctum.
I surrender to the quiet power
of her hips,
the way they sway
and command me.
But right now, in the stillness,
she is where the divine
and the earthly meet.
She is my deity;
I am devout in my worship,
a man unmade
in devotion.
