I imagine you holding me, and it’s the highest form of desecration. My throat seals, my stomach violently rejects air, and still I beg for it. I want to touch you until the guilt is scorched clean from my marrow, until every cell forgets the command to repent and remembers only your heat. I want to vanish into you, even if it means God will never, could never, face me again. At times I think he already turned away. At times I think the punishment is to survive the gnawing distance between us (legitimately, and technically, well, because I don’t remember we have ever started a conversation in this last time) and call it faith.