Clutch

My love and attachment reaches for the cloth behind the veil of your personality; there, my soul reaches out like a god's hand and clenches it's fist around it's desire.

When the patches in your veil are too thick, my veil revolts, my god's hand raps it's fingers like a wave of impatience. These patches, when too thick, hide the holiest of holies, and in doing so commit great offense.

My love reaches behind your personality, to the soul cloth, and in it sees the same fibers which make up my god's hand stretching out to clutch madly a cloth which longs as it does, to embrace; both quivering for their completion, and their unraveling.

When there is fire set upon your veil, my god's hand will not reach, your cloth becomes a source of eternal longing, and once satisfaction; a memory of the past which sours the present with the absence of it's presence. The holiest of holies isn't hidden, but visible, and out of reach.

Still, my god's hand reaches out, and burns clutching it's desire.