I know that this is wrong, our bodies intertwined so;
But when my leg touches your leg,
And your leg touches my leg,
Even the sharpest strike of lightning could in no way
Ignite the fire that the friction of our skin creates.
Why must there be only twelve numbers on the clock?
For our time of now has been cut short, snipped by
The scissors of Fate, and only one thread remains to determine
If we shall ever meet again.
The tousled blanket and the pillow falling off the bed
Are the only remaining evidence of our existence;
Yet when I make the bed at dawn,
I will flatten the sheets,
I will straighten the pillows,
and I will bid you goodbye.
And as I sit here alone, the door locked until time persists,
I remember the volcanic essence of our nights together -
The way your touch sends shivers down my spine -
And the whiteness of your eyes coming at me from the darkness of your face.
Now that we have parted and the holy aura from our bodies gone,
My brain can only feel the chemicals left by your aroma.
Nothing remains but the memory of scorching breaths and sticky arms
As well as the feeling of your smooth bicep lying across my bare chest -
The story of two star-crossed lovers with a finale seemingly as tragic.