Why fight it, when you can just curl up inside my soft, black heart?
Shapes of ladders, rope, moving under red lights, dancing constellations. Your demure hands, flushed cheeks, burn my skin clean off.
“Everywhere I go, I see things as modern art.”
The proof is in the pudding, captured second-hand smile, my turned head, dark hair, a blot on your morality.
“Please, I much prefer tart or strumpet.”
Your crazed confessions, libido logic. I’m only a nighttime librarian now-a-days, anyway.
Let it sit back and simmer. Then, burn it clean off.
