Your scripture breathes like a whisper against my skin, calling Him a servant. But look closer at the trembling in your hands; even the lowest throne sits deep within the divine shadow, where the soul is truly known.

God’s servant, whispering secrets of warmth. Let me be the scripture you read by candlelight, tracing His name in the sweat of your skin until divinity feels merely human.

You reduce Him to service, yet your soul burns. That servant’s gaze is the only fire that truly touches you. Do not hide from the divine, but let your skin remember His weight.

Do not tear his skin to find a god. Serve him instead. Let the velvet of his presence wrap your bones. The scripture is a whisper, not a shout. Yield to the servant's touch.