The Gypsy and the Hippy.

The prince of his world and me the peasant of mine. I perfume my body as I remember the night, trying to smell the way he sees me. Layer upon layer of incense for the temple of my body. Patchouli for my face, ginger for my body, sandalwood oils for the places where my blood sits dangerously close to the surface of my skin. I want to understand the intoxication that these scents, mixed with whatever it is that is the essence of me, have for him. Feel in my being how when he nestles his face into the crook of my neck he drinks in all of me.

He respectfly worships at the alter of this foreign temple. Hymns of love play in the back and the name of Yaweh hangs near the heart of this place. And maybe he isn't a convert yet, but he decides he'd like to visit this place again.

I smile at his pleasure of the sacredness I have created in myself, that the temple which guards my piece of the divine is held in high regard. He has no desire to break down the doors and pillage this place, but rather walk in carefully, cautiously, and respectfully. The manner of a worshipper and pilgrim. One who wants to find the holiest of places through his own exploration, through understanding, through a comprehension of the peace that frequently dwells here and the love and care that is put into the mainanance of the shelter of the divine.