Sin and the Lust We Keep, a Saturday poem

You are on my hands; 

I can still smell you

underneath the covers. We

were more than friends

I faint at each bat of your

lashes, and how smooth

your skin is on mine

I know we are meant to

be by the way you look

at me

I doubt God would be

angry at us; I don’t think

He would be upset, nor find

a bolt to throw our way