Sticky Fingers

Mine heart hath hands, with digits extending forth from the cage wherewith she is held, through the open parts, out of my chest. A warm embrace, she’d hope, but attaching onto nothing but the spirit of a Man whom she has yet to touch. My fingers should be warm, or must be cold. I am paint; a stain from the valve of a dissection from Adam’s side, though I know not where he is. Perhaps the other should inform me, and His mouth is sweet, a composition of letters meant to create a picture. I’d grave them onto my mind if I could, though I long to feel that which has not been given me. I’d say He is gird with a leather pap and hath a silky back. In the night I long for seed as numbereth the stars, as He hath promised, if He’d only feel me in mine eyes. But this longing is not tactile nor tangible, though indeed it is fruitful; boughs upon boughs, breast upon breast. Yea, mine heart hath digits, sticky as the issue of man, but though I bleed, I shall not cease. The rib is on my side permanently. And I shall play the song of a xylophone, dripping from the open spaces of my heart and lungs, reaching forth to touch the Man I cannot touch. And thank God, for these strings break not easily. They shall find their way onto Thy strings and attach. I am the woman after God’s own heart, and these bloody sticky fingers are become as sinew and marrow, for the sword hath pierced us both. We are one in this way, for to love the Lord with all the heart is to break forth and leap. And when I leap, O Lord, Thou knowest. Indeed, Thou art delicious.