It’s a crime to paint such flowers with so crude a brush. Your skills, my lord, confound me and I present myself to you humbly. Your fingers are calloused and jagged, their edges can cut if you’re not careful. You touch so soft your skin to mine and I sizzle in your grasp. You are the warmest part of me and even you are now embers, but it is not my duty anymore to stoke the ashes, as deeply as I wish you would burn again for me. A flick of the eyes and a trick of the tongue are welcomed warmly by my singing heart.