My lips, pink and petite,
Always falling short of love.

Most usually, burning against a
Flesh
Holding more toxins than my
Lungs find throughout the night.

And this tongue,
Trails deep within forbidden
Valleys,
Seeping moisture to the greatest
Of mistakes.

My pulse finds a way to give my
Hips a rhythm
To the symphonies of seduction.

Ballads of bed sheets.

I try to breeze through temptation,
Even in the cities of lust.

My mind lacks discretion
As I grip this desire...