I cra√e to feel your pulse in my fingertips, in my palms. Delicately, of course, because if I squeeze to hard it could break, something so sacred should ne√er be handled carelessly. Claws made to cull, yet I would hold you like glass, like a relic of the messiahs, trace each and e√ery gr%√e of your ligaments, each strand of muscle, committing the scripture of your body into my memory. I will worship each trembling part of you; linger o√er the music of your tendons, sa√our the essence of your marrow, delight in the sweet scent of salaciously inhaling you into my lungs, like a breath of prayer at the alter of your bones. Let your hue, whate√er it may be, fl%d and stir amongst my own, bathe my fronds in you. And when my de√otion lea√es its mark upon you, I will carry out the di√ine restoration, gathering what has been so thoroughly broken and piecing it back together like a shattered sculpture mended with gold. The hands so capable of ruin becoming instruments of re√i√al, patiently tracing your wounds until you are whole once more. To destroy is effortless for one such as me, but rebuilding you piece by precious piece, to cherish and nurture those cracks and fractures, to mend it with apt attention. That is worship.
That was beautifully written 0-0
I am delighted you think so.