The woman is my temple.
Her body, my sanctuary.
I live solely for the purpose of satisfying
my patron goddess.
I visit the chapel daily,
as I am a religious man.
I often linger outside the gates,
indulging in the sweet scents of the morning.
The interior of the temple is dull and dreary;
I fill it with the light of my love.
In the evenings, the entryway feels warm and humid,
and may take several hours for it to cool down.
I come in and out of the church repeatedly,
as I have other things to tend to in its surroundings.
But, I am never gone for long:
Just long enough for the temple to miss me, and greet me eagerly upon my return.
Every day, I polish the single chandelier in the sanctuary
which hangs curiously off-center.
I dutifully rub down the walls of the narrow hallway
leading to the illustrious auditorium.
The sounds coming from inside the church
on Sunday mornings are almost angelic.
The melody begins with slow, steady vocal patterns,
and ends with a more rapid, unpredictable style.
Though not a Saint, I worship daily.
Though not a demon, I often err.
I may never see the light of heaven,
but the Temple of the Woman will always be there.