He took it each morning,
a pickpocket
snatching the prayer from sacred lips;
ducking out the door with prize and bagel.

All day held close,
tucked in breast pocket,
constantly drawing his hand
to feel it pulse in matching time.

He would take it out when alone,
whispered like a secret,
filling mouth and mind
til he could bare it no more,
passing it joyfully across his lips.

he returned it each evening,
tangled up into her,
spent and warm;
gave it back the way he'd taken it:
a quiet thief passionately repenting.

He'd take it again in the morning.