Sunday.

Staying in bed on a Sunday screaming “Jesus!” does not constitute going to church. But in your church, that of your body; your mind; your soul; is the religion in which I believe. I walk through your open hands like open doors and I pray with my undivided attention. Palm-to-palm is holy palmers kiss, and sin is nothing but the time I spend apart from you. Give me naught that diverts me from my hands entwined in yours. The space between your fingers calls to me, give me my trespass again. I speak your name in holy reverence; I utter it like a prayer of hope, before the altar of a bed whose blankets have been stripped to warm us on the living room floor. This is my church. The communion of breaking bread with you each evening, sharing bottles of water-turned-wine as hair falls in eyes and I’ll teach you the real meaning of the word “Saviour”. This is thy holy chalice; the twisted sheets bind you to me like the lead that binds Saint Paul to his halo. This is love, the type men strung themselves on crosses to find, only to realise that they had left it on the stone floors of government houses, while their childhood sweethearts shared kisses in waterside shacks with fishermen who knew how to find coins in even the coldest mouths. I will willingly give you my coat; my robe; my skin; my eyes. I will turn one cheek to your mouth, then the other; I will give you my hair and wash your feet. With the prayer of my lips against yours, I will give you the kingdom of myself; let you explore the paths my veins make as it pulls what blood has been spilled into my heart from yours. This is my church, where drunkenly we turn our minds to science and see the beauty of the universe on the ceiling in winter, where girls can love girls and boys can kiss with no fear of retribution, where guilt is a dead word and only theologists remember it. This is my religion, your hands; your mouth, the deity to whom I pray with teeth and tongue and shouts of evangelistic fervour into your neck and hair and chest.