Sweet nothings whispered in the non-believer’s ear.
Succumb, slowly, succumb to the whispers of the devil.
And slowly, deftly, the non-believer believed.
Believed in the patron saints, believed in the serenity of existence.
And then, before long enough, it became:
Shun the non-believer.
And the devil wondered why her belief was wavering.
And the devil wondered why she could never be his.
But the devil never allowed the non-believer to believe.
Never showed her enough truth to see the beauty of faith.
And whisper-soft touches on smooth skin became unreal:
Hands whispered over parts of her that weren’t there,
Parts that belonged to another.
And so the non-believer searched for another faith.
And the non-believer knows the devil, but no longer knows
why she even began to believe in that faltering faith.
She had lain in bed with the devil, laid in his lair:
Became his archangel, for a time.
The non-believer feels no pain over her rendez-vous with the devil.
Because now, she knows the sweet nothings were just that:
Nothing.
And she has come to know that hands whispering against flesh mean
nothing.
She has come to find a new faith:
Her hands raised to the beauty of the sun, of the moon, of the skies.
Of the lilacs nestled in her breast.
And this faith knows no more truth than this:
Love can be shown in no more than warm hand against palm,
Hair tumbling down over silken flesh,
Staircases climbed together.
And her new Messiah has shown her more than any other.
She will stand by her Messiah until the end of their glory.
