Beneath the neon lights in a room of a small motel, putting the hoodoo on me with your cat eyes and Mona Lisa smile. Listening to Conway Twitty on the electric radio and watching the way you smoked that cigarette. With your full lips humming. Sipping a cognac, with your fingers tracing my spine and the bedsprings singing a gospel choir. Testifying to our original sin between tangled sheets and bitten sighs. You whisper something blasphemous, something holy and when the morning comes we’ll pretend we don’t remember. But I’ll know. Oh, I’ll know. How the night peeled us down to the bone and left us raw. Making me feel like a sinner in church, filled with holy ghost and unholy thirst.
You put your lips on mine, like honey dripping from the comb and you were a slow-moving storm. Rolling in like thunder, breaking me open like lightning. Your hands were an unholy benediction and your mouth was a psalm. We were two shadows melting into one. You tasted like temptation and redemption all at once. The way your hips moved, slow and deliberate. Like a hymn. Like a prayer. Like the devil’s own rhythm. You left me breathless. Left me shaking. Left me wrecked and rebuilt in your image. The sheets were our altar, the night our confession. I was baptized in sweat and sin, and you were the revival.You kissed me like the world was ending.
And maybe it was. Maybe it did. Because when the sun rose, everything was different. Everything was holy. Everything was yours. Beneath the neon lights in a room of a small motel.You put the hoodoo on me with your cat eyes and Mona Lisa smile, and “When the roll is called up yonder, I’ll be there.”
