The Strange Church

I don't know you.
You don't know me,
but here we are.
and you're relaxed,
and I'm trying
not to kiss you.

Because the real joy
lies in the anticipation,
noses touching,
your breath in my beard,
my hand on your face,
like a long second
stretched around the clock.

We are not church-goers
and so this is how we pray.
A couple of prudes in the
middle of all the light and noise,
where perverts and whores
beckon us to join them in the
burning fire of a kissing hell.

There is grace in that mis-shapen second.
There is grace in the air between our lips.