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"They say that God puts essence of himself in all of his creations." Kurt informs the two of you as you sit on the grass, under the constellations of stars that dot this nighttime sky. He can feel the wet dew seeping through the thin blanket that the two of you shared the burden of as you carried it out to the lawn, but that's scarcely a matter of concern to him. All that matters is the heavenly body that occupies the landscape of the blanket with him, that props themselves on their elbow and smiles openly at him.
"He puts it in these flowers that I have brought to you." Kurt says, and raises the bouquet that is the proverbial final hurdle between the two of you—your eyes dance as they glance down to the marigolds that cannot hold candle to your beauty, the tulips that blossom but pale when compared with you. He sets them down to allow his hand to gesture to the landscape of the sky that yawns openly above you both, the full moon that holds careful audience to this intimate moment shared.
"He has blessed it in the sky that we sit under," Kurt says, and he watches you stare up to the sky that is smattered with the wonder of faraway planets—but he would forsake them all, if it meant he shared space on this planet with you—"—With its beautiful moon and her stars that twinkle so brightly."
Indeed, they shine, but none are so bright as you. And he doesn't say this specifically, but it's clear his intention through the words that he does say, that he will continue to keep saying. You sigh contentedly, listening to the poetry that he weaves on your behalf.
"He has put it in the very air that we breathe together." Kurt informs you, and you offer a light, breathy chuckle at the miracles that allow the two of you to be able to hold space. And when he dares to place his hand over yours, you don't resist. If anything, your smile grows more sweet and true than any moment before, as you turn to more fully regard him.
"But I feel," Kurt says, and he takes care to put every ounce of meaning that he possibly can, "That he has put the lion's share of it in you."
You look to him and he wishes for the continued privilege of holding those eyes for as many more moments that the future can possibly afford him. He openly wishes for the blessing of your voice that speaks, as it does now, when you say, "He has also put it in you, Mr. Wagner."
"This is true." He smiles, and he squeezes his hand ever-so-slightly over yours—he would not do to besmirch or damage the masterpiece that sits across from him. "But I would not commit and sin and lie to say that it is not truth—that some are more blessed than others."
He lifts your hand, and you let him do so, give him the blessing to press the ridge of your knuckles to his mouth in chaste, chivalrous kiss. "And I am merely his blessed servant to share the presence of one who has. And to be able to hold their hand, and stroke their cheek."
And so he dares, this sinner who seeks salvation in your presence, to have the permission to graze his own finger up your jawline, to find the apple of your cheek. To feel the blessings that God has given a mere mortal like him.
"And," You smile, "To give them a kiss?"
"Ja—"—And now he gives himself the grace to smile, if you choose to do so as well, "If I am so lucky."
And it seems because the Lord has chosen to make him one who is so indubitably privileged, he finds himself allowed to do so.