The Beauty in the Sin

It was a soft sigh,

an aching stutter

that sang verses in my bones

and called out to me

from a place well-known.

 

I knew it from a dream,

saw it fluttering,

weak and scared

like a bird

trapped among my ribs.

 

The soft blade of a finger

tracing symbols on skin

that spelled out

the beauty in the sin.

 

Fear was a flavor on my tongue;

hot and thick and electric,

Exhilaration a tingling

in my fingertips.

 

Words divided of meaning

tossed to the unallied night,

sparkling like so many fireflies

and other cruel imitations of stars.

 

Under the baleful glare

of a chill winter moon,

you are a testament to

the beauty in the sin.

 

What was sweet has rotted,

turned sickly and vague

with a delicious fever

once called passion

when whispered in a hungry ear.

 

Blame was something

I could never do,

even when your fire

burned its way through mine

and ate away

all the flesh I gave--

 

It was I who gasped out

the words that began

the undoing

of the beauty in the sin.