the cricket sound of hot-love dusk, the silently fluttering madness of moonlight, it hides under her eyelids as she presses her sweet lips to the night;
you tremble beneath the weight of her molten stare, your teeth piercing the solemn reverence of her ashen heart --
oh, god, touch her hands cold like ghosts in your arms like a guitar, her soul bleeds onto your naked chest warm breath slow breathe, oh Dawn, look, your hot-love is fire;