Sacred Acts

How lightly the world speaks of a desire, As if a warmth for minutes could ignite a fire. A mere want, a passing touch, a breathless play— No, dear reader, it is not built that way. This intertwining of two lives, two hands, Defies the shallow borders of our lands.

Once, she was nothing to the waking mind, A passing face in crowds left far behind. Now, every breath she draws commands my own, A total sovereignty I’ve never known. Is it a bond forged in the quiet dark, A sudden branding by a sacred spark? It is not lust that lingers when the rush has fled, Nor simple passion where the pulse is led.

My entire existence pins itself to one, Before whom all realities are undone. The world grows vague, its meaning blurred and gray, When she is near and breathing worlds away. A profound drilling at the spirit’s core, Leaving me powerless, wanting nothing more.

It is not love—that word is far too small To hold the weight of this, to map the fall. It is an essence bleeding through the seams, A fierce devotion deeper than our dreams, A phenomenon, a haunting, wild design, Where her soul anchors deep inside of mine.