The Hymn of Your Name — Kevin Tyrone McMillion Jr.

I yearn for the moment your lips shape my name— not in haste, but as one lifts a hymn toward heaven, a sound pure and unbroken, a whisper that awakens the soul as dawn awakens the earth. Your voice, gentle and golden, carries the fragrance of peace, and in it my heart finds its rest. The arrows fall from unseen heights, yet I shall be your shield, your watchtower, your trembling fortress. Why do you insist upon bearing a cross fashioned from solitude and silence? Even kings, even prophets, did not walk alone. Let our fingers entwine as vines of the vineyard, each vein carrying the pulse of the other. Your eyes—two stars smoldering in the abyss, set like jewels in the vault of heaven— burn through the fog that haunts me. I look into them and lose myself, as though falling through a dream where the ground never comes. Your lips—how they call me, how they ensnare me, the honeyed snare of Solomon’s own gardens. To taste them would be to drink wine pressed from eternal grapes, fermented in the hidden cellars of the soul. Your body, soft, radiant, a temple veiled in mystery— how I long to hold you, not as flesh alone, but as the very essence of my longing, the unspoken psalm that keeps me awake at night. Let me draw my fingers through your hair, each strand a thread binding me to eternity. The scent of you lingers like incense in the Holy of Holies, I long to breathe it in, to lose myself, to be consumed in you, as a moth longs for a flame, as Solomon longed for the bride who was his song.