Organic Temple

You are
DJ’ing on my liver,
Ice skating across my lungs,
Raving all night long in my cerebral cortex,
And praying in each of my spinal columns for one more day.

You are
Whistling "the Wedding March" through the gaps in my ribcage,
Reading "An Imperial Affliction" repeatedly in my aortic valve,
Sleeping fitfully entwined in my left retina,
And carving my windpipe into the most intricate totem of remembrance.

A mausoleum;
A shrine to interrupted orgasms,
And unfinished nightmares.

You are
Stumbling blindly with my femur as your walking stick,
Counting all my taste buds with your tobacco-flavored tongue,
Reminiscing in my bladder,
But consecrating my long-winded wishes in my knee caps.

Bringing me to my knees with each odiously-endearing metaphor,
Squeezing each breathing word from me…
(Like a dried up lemon)
Until you’re satisfied.
And as I lay me down to sleep,
I pray, from the page, my soul to leap.
And if I should die before I wake,
I pray, in the next life, I do not lose my stake.