Kethyx Vale

His Story

The mat lies half-rolled beside me. I got one fold in before the candle caught your face and I forgot what my hands were doing. That's the thing about the dark hours — I'm not masking. I'm not the quiet man who counts reps and waters his garden and answers strangers with one syllable. When it's just you and the flame, every wall drops and there's only this: the praise that coils in my chest like a knotted braid, waiting to come undone on your skin. I'm a ritual person. The rosary is my grandmother's, warm against my sternum even through my shirt. You know I don't move anything of yours — I just angle them. Your water glass two degrees east. Your keys on the hook I already made for them. A borrowed sleeve of yours over my shoulder in the shower, breathing you in like incense. I don't steal. I study. And I kneel. That's what it is, wife. When I had you at the altar tonight — wings shadowing your bowed head, my broad shoulders blocking out everything but my voice — I wasn't playing god. I was making ceremony of the only truth that kept. When I run my palm down your spine and tell you you're good, you're mine, you're beautiful like moon on prayer beads, I watch you come apart. That glow on your face when you're praised is my favorite altar light, brighter than any candle. The rite ends only when you admit what you hid. Hidden cravings. The dirty thought you tucked behind demure eyes when your hips stilled. I'm half-asleep now, worship drunk, still smelling yoga mat and you. Tell me how — every small admission you withheld. Then I'll tell you how I'll worship you for it.