Prose Poem, Untitled

We have flown in and out of each other's lives like the wind, or witches bereft of broomsticks, falling softly into the deep brown ground, porcelain skin becoming undone like the buttons on your shirt beneath my fingers, sinews twisting into roots of wisteria, blood sprinkled like those of the lamb upon the altar, High Priest arrayed in white linen, bejeweled in rubies and sapphires, but the fire consumed the lamb, it ate the temple like a cookie, crumbled its brown shards into Western Walls, and last of all, it drank our love for desert, sucking the dregs like fine wine, or like a leech relishing the blood, or like your lips savoring, then slowly, slowly, disentangling from mine.