Gold is spilling over the windowsill,
I open my eyes and I’m awake.
I’m alive.
Clothed in skin and cotton
I reach across the no-man’s-land
Of the duvet, searching for you;
My place of worship,
My second skin.
Cathedral amongst men in the bed
Beside me, always;
Covers kicked back, one arm outstretched.
Ink and warmth and pelt,
Muffled mumblings at the break of day,
This is my religion
And in bed in the morning,
I stare into the windows of the cathedral
And I pray.

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