I have thought about writing the greatest poetry for you 

My hand scribbling across various textures and surfaces 

My pen leaving ink marks 

Buried deeply into each paper 

My room filled with each crumpled paper 

As they hit the walls 

Carrying my frustrations

And my mind’s inability to submit to my fingers 

But I will manage to tell you one thing: 

You are my god.

I ponder often, my purpose, my hesitations,

Why I resist the call to worship,

To linger in between pews

Enraptured in the preacher’s voice 

Their softly spoken tales 

Of a celestial realm 

Its laughter-filled heavens

Where angels dance on soft clouds 

But how do I explain to the world, 

That my reluctance stems from my devotion to  you?

You have showed me heaven 

In the gentle curve of your lips 

In the fleeting caresses 

Of our intertwined fingers  

So, why revere an unseen deity

When you, my own god, sits before me?

I become an alter 

Chanting of your praises 

As you, with the grace of angels,

And a touch as tender as clouds, 

Envelop me in your world

For even this mortal body 

Cannot contain the depth of adoration 

I harbor for you