delicately painted with waves of craving
that crash before we reach the shore,
with sand warm against my bare back,
Your face shielding my gaze from the glaring sun,
a showcase of your freckled skin,
traced with raised edges
where I dug my nails in.
Sunday’s sin can be forgiven
when it was neither seen nor heard
but spoken in tongues.
You want to know,
you want me to teach you
the ways of my God
like how this beach becomes one with the sea,
but my God doesn’t obey the prayers
formed between a man’s clasped hands,
first he must dare to get his feet wet.