There is something about being inside a woman—
cloaked in wetness and tissue,
feeling the deep parts open and close,
falling in love with the soft browns, pinks, reds,
and catching the scent as it rises when her thighs widen,
sometimes ripe, sometimes sweet,
and seeing the liquid milky and slippery
or clear and sticky when I spread my fingers—
something that moves me towards God, towards a Creator
who designed me for this one thing,
my body made to be buried in her—hands slender and long,
my nose and mouth spaced apart just enough to breathe
in and out, steadily and with ease,
so that one day I could exhale my life in her,
become small again,
crawl back back back inside
and be born once more,
now holy, now whole.