Her skin is kissed by the stone lips of Luna; pale and cold are the curses between her legs.
My skin barely contains the poison underneath; the lies in my fingertips are centuries old.
She peels her skin off as I milk myself dry
Her breath is ancient flowers pressed between pages never meant to be opened; her ******* are polished granite, worn smooth by the bloodstained hands of old men who lost their souls long before she lost her virginity.
These dusty daydreams, sun soaked and lazy thoughts floating in the blue smoke of an afternoon spent idling, are the only way I can drink your milky skin and not taste blood.