Beneath the neon lights in a room of a small motel, putting the hoodoo on me with your cat eyes and Mona Lisa smile. Listening to Conway Twitty on the electric radio and watching the way you smoked that cigarette, with your full lips humming. Sipping a cognac, with your fingers tracing my spine and the bedsprings singing a gospel choir. Testifying to our original sin between tangled sheets and bitten sighs. You whisper something blasphemous, something holy and when the morning comes we’ll pretend we don’t remember. How the night peeled us down to the bone and left us raw. Making me feel like a sinner in church, filled with holy ghost and unholy thirst. You put your lips on mine, like honey dripping from the comb and you were a slow-moving storm. The way your hands moved like prayer, and your mouth was a psalm. I was baptized in sweat and sin, and you were the revival. Beneath the neon lights in a room of a small motel.