Upon the table of our evening feast
grows a lush and verdant sheet,
from the ashes of the Earth I'm born-
blooming flowers on the dirt you kissed,
laying dormant in the spots you missed.
Seadrops from your tongue only deepen
my thirst for your lips,
and that stormy touch makes me believe
you hold thunder in your fingertips.
The midnight grass gathering dew upon my skin,
grows from the starlight within your eyes of sin.
Our garden lies so far from Eden,
sweetly grown by my guilty maiden.