My God is in the stars; she is in the empty spaces between them.

My God is in the street signs and ghettos. She sleeps in crystals and in guns.

She lies in fields of poppies, and she rushes through the veins of an addict.

She is in the curls of the devil's evil grin. She is in his desire for power, and she is in his starvation for injustice.

My God is each of my five senses, and she is those which I cannot sense.

My God is taste.

She is in the essence of syrup and peaches, the bitterness of a freshly squeezed lemon, and the sweetness of a gentle kiss.

My God is touch.

She is sensuality and sexuality.

She is in the curves of my hips, the silk gown of a loving grandmother, and the clenching of my fists.

My God is sound.

She is in a casual but sweet kiss from the ocean, the roar of a lioness, and the pitter-patter of a toddler's feet.

My God is in all melodies sung and she is in those yet unsung.

My God is smell.

She is in the smell of spices in the kitchen, and in the sweat of a fierce competitor.

She is in the intoxicating aroma that fills the air after sex, and she is in the wondrous smell of tulip fields.

My God is sight.

She is in the chills on my skin when I face an endless ocean and magnificent palm trees.

She is in my eyes, and she is my eyes.

Her eyes are predators, and you cannot forget them, even if you turn away.

She is a highway.

She is felt in the wind against your arms on a motorcycle in a canyon next to the sea. And that is why nobody will never stop riding there. Nobody will ever stop seeking natural beauty. Because everyone is obsessed with her touch, and everybody wants to catch a glimpse of her face; nobody is immune.

She is the sensation of flowing in the river of the universe. She is in the silver sea. She is in your shaking legs. She is in peachy cheeks. She is in the desperation of a furrowed brow.

My God is in the feeling that brings you closer to death but closer to life as well. She is a visualization of love; she is a manifestation of that vision.

She touches you when you least expect it—and when you turn to see her face, she has already moved on to the next wonder.

My God is in the revolution. She is in the rebellion against racial injustice.

She resides in observatories more than any church because that is where we admire her present beauty without indulging in her old photographs.

She is.

Endless possibilities. Everchanging seasons. Expanding galaxies.

My God is here.

She is breathing through me; breathing through you.

She is loving through me; loving through you.

And if the devil hides behind an angel tattoo, my God is hiding right behind.