St. Elmo's Fire

        “I have scars as deep as the river Nile laced with thorns,” she sang.  He sat by the bay and draped himself in her pain.  “Tell me your story.”

            “Satan forced me to drink his blood.  Broken glass and pointy edges.  I regurgitated heaven and he cursed me from then on.” She bled tears.  Clean.  Even.  Smooth.  Cocoa.  The glistening of their shine reminding him of home.

            He stroked the inside of her thigh then moaned.

            “I wanted eternity dipped in flames wrapped in a small wooden box with a velvet sash tied at the end,” she shuddered.  “I wanted it to rain you drenched in champagne colored drops.  Cool.  Breezy.  Sweet.”

            She wanted to hide, but found no refuge in his gaze.  Dreams.  Closing her eyes she leaned screaming hymns and scriptures trapped between the whispers of butterfly wings.  He held tight and muffled her sounds with long lucid strokes, attempting to erase nightmares with hands.

            She didn’t know about Sunday prayers, Saturday revivals or ghostly gods whitewashed blond.  But as his tongue fluttered across the deepest parts of her she was baptized, laying her faith onto his alter.  She blessed his soul by uttering his name.

            The sound of God being spoken between her tongue and teeth left hand prints between his soul and he ached for her.  Even though there were others, he ached for her.  And as dawn kissed day he remembered her hair, her smell, her scent, her taste.  He was left satisfied.  Subdued.  Realizing heaven came knocking at his door submerged in her skin and leaving him a saved man worshiping her temple for the rest of his life.

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