It’s Sunday…
so let me testify a little.
I woke up thinking about devotion,
not the loud kind,
not the performative kind,
but the quiet discipline of choosing you
even when nobody’s watching.
See, when I say you’re my religion,
I don’t mean I kneel at your feet.
I mean I stand ten toes in loyalty.
I mean I practice what I preach.
I mean I don’t flirt with temptation
and call it curiosity.
Your soul?
That’s my scripture.
Every conversation with you reads like revelation,
soft truths, hard honesty,
no hidden verses.
Your heart is the altar.
Not a place for sacrifice,
but a place for surrendering ego.
And you know I’ve had one…
but loving you taught me
faith ain’t about control,
it’s about trust.
Your beauty?
That’s not just skin.
It’s how you carry peace in chaos.
How you don’t beg to be chosen.
How you don’t compete,
you complete.
I don’t need stained glass to see heaven.
I’ve seen it in your smile at 7 a.m.
Hair wrapped.
No filters.
Still glowing like grace.
Being true to my religion
means I don’t shop for new beliefs
when things get inconvenient.
It means I don’t wander
when we disagree.
It means I don’t let pride
write sermons my heart doesn’t believe.
You’re not something I visit on Sundays.
You’re a daily practice.
A lifestyle.
A commitment I renew
without being asked.
And yeah…
I’m praising this morning.
Not in noise,
but in consistency.
In answering your calls.
In protecting your name when you’re not around.
In choosing honesty
even when it costs me comfort.
Because faith without works is dead, right?
So if loving you is my religion,
then loyalty is my worship.
Integrity is my offering.
And being real with you..
even about my flaws,
is my confession.
It’s Sunday.
And I just wanted you to know…
I’m not casually spiritual about you.
I’m committed.
True to my religion.
