Her Breath Like Wine
Her body was fire in my arms,
her breath like wine on my tongue.
We burned like the first creation—
and that was the night she was gone.
⸻
Grief took the chair in the corner,
fangs bared in the dark of the room.
It whispered her silence forever,
it promised her joy was entombed.
.
Why’d You invent grief, Lord?
Why teach this fire to breathe?
If this is how You love us,
it’s a love I cannot keep.
⸻
I kissed her lips, cooling,
still praying they’d move.
Her eyes—once rivers—
went hard without proof.
But grief’s teeth slipped from me
when memory returned:
her warmth the night before,
our bodies still burned.
.
Why’d You invent grief, Lord?
Why carve these wounds so deep?
But the fire You gave in her body—
that’s the fire I still keep.
Grief fled the corner!
(Grief fled the room!)
Her laughter rising!
(Her laughter blooms!)
Her touch still burning!
(Her touch consumes!)
No grave can hold her!
(No grave, no tomb!)
Lift up the gospel!
(Her body, her flame!)
Lift up the gospel!
(I call out her name!)
Love drives the darkness,
love drives the grief!
Love is the gospel—
the Godspell I keep!
⸻
Why’d You invent grief, Lord?
Why haunt me with her eyes?
But love outlives the silence,
and it drives the grief to flight.
Oh, love outlives the silence,
and it drives the grief to flight!
⸻
Her body was fire in my arms,
her breath still wine on my tongue.
I carry that night like gospel,
my Godspell of flesh and flame—
and grief has no claim.
On a whim... 