My arms are aching from carrying you up this mountain
       and my heart wouldn’t mind so much
               if it were ignorant of your beauty
                                ignorant of my thoughts
                                ignorant of the agony
                                                 of putting you on the altar
                                                      to be taken away

And I cry out to God in hopeful chaos
        that this is just a test, as I place you on the stones
        I hope you are a little comfortable

But I hear silence alone
       as my knife grants us his presence
            so I scream harder, because perhaps my sorrow
            cannot be heard

            but still, only silence.

And so with tender hands, I slit your throat
        and hold you against me, your blood making sick art on my skin
                you let me cry on your shoulder, as if you know I’m sorry
                        as if you know
                        you are to be taken from me.

I listen closely for God in the whirlwind of torment
  but all that remains is the soft thud of your heartbeat fading into the darkness
          leaving mine
                        to grieve alone.