I’ve a halo in my hair and damnation in my kiss. The Lord will judge you at the end of time, but I’m far more immediate. I can see the stain on your soul without that faint murmur from your supplicating lips. Part them anyway. I adore the whisper.
Lay all your prayers on me.
So the Padre is skimming thoughts right now; so many delicious hearts laid bare. I’m watching your journals as if reading a rosary, little pearls of humanity gleaming in the darkness; truth and life and dreams, your devotion matching my own. And I am devoted to each and every one of you.
I hear your confession. I see the vaulting of your desires to the heavens. I read the ashes of your contrition. There, praise. Here, the reading of a lesson.
My passion for you rises like incense. There’s always love. Love for the pounding of your heart, for the glittering tempo of life imprinted on a page.
Pulsing thought connects us like wine, and I drink you all nightly.
The confessional is latticed between us, this electronic network that glows like the blush left from the scourge. Bleed to me your thoughts.
My will be done.