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06 May 2009 @ 03:23 am

There's a prayer on her lips when she reaches up to kiss me. Drowned as I am in the grind of my mind's lumbering machinery finally put into motion after months of dormancy, I can't make out what it is. I only try to match the immediacy of her desire. I'm not her religion, I'm just shiny as a mirror.

Later, perched on her bed, I look up from the base of her altar. The gears and springs and levers in my head hum in a quiet whir now having located their purpose. My mouth on skin and my fingers inside her urge out her prayer again.

"God," she says.

She clamps her eyes shut, throws her head back, buries her teeth into her bottom lip. My engine drives her toward a destination.

"God," she says.

Her body quivers. The skin of her thighs cool against my cheeks. Her fingers clutch my hair, run across the backs of my ears, lost children searching for a home. This is automatic for me, programmed in the language of sighs and moans from every woman who ever sought something intangible in me, every woman who felt I'd failed them when eventually they couldn't find whatever it was they were looking for.

"Oh, God, Michael," she says.

I am a vehicle. I'm not her religion. But she wants me to be.