Do you desire to know my true religion? Scared to admit such a heathenish thing to myself. I'll tell you this. . .

When I wake up you are there lingering in my mind, you've become my morning ritual, my mornings reminder.

When I begin to type, my hands lay first over the letters which spell out your name, understanding that they shouldn't I delete, and go back to whatever it was I was doing. You are the religion of my fingers, they desire you as I do. Feeling your hand in mine, or touching your rough hair.

Pen In hand.

When my pen releases ink, the ink spells you, or anything that reminds me of you.

When I fall asleep I have yet to get enough, you baby, you are still there. Kicking the thoughts of deprivation of you, I miss you.

You are my Premium Religion.