i'm your black slash of paint
in the middle of your blank canvas
you're a sultry indian summer
in the midst of my siberian nights

you're a firework quietly going off
inside the isolation in my head,
and i'm your hearth, your home
in a crowd choked with strangers

my fingers dance across the ballroom
of your freckles and craters of skin,
and i'm perforating every curve of you,
from your liquid chocolate eyes to your lips.

i calculate every manoeuvre made,
but no one ever counted on you-
and you crash in, guns glazing,
and i was never the same.