Wild berry margarita and your sweat
on my tongue. Our voices melt
into the high-rise ceiling and every breath
is a ripe fruit, threatening to soften
into the ache of being bitten.

We steal from each other’s throats,
determined to swallow something
that will stick to our ribs, fire
that makes our hearts scream.

You are spitting my favorite
seeds of sound
into the valley of my collarbones.
We are finding pools of holiness
in which to drown each other’s names.
We are familiar with the type of worship
that can only be perfected from our knees,
the sinning that happens
when we beg to rise from them.

All the air in our lungs evaporates
into purple sky. We collapse
into one body. This hotel room
is a cathedral and God grows
in the blackberry bramble
pushing through the frost.
We are so hungry it cuts up our mouths.