your lips are the cesspool of sin
invading my thoughts,
filling my brain with the images
of them swollen, red, bruised,
or coated in saliva
and caught between your teeth,
or even forming my name
in a whisper or a moan.
you are the devil's bartender,
mixing a molotov cocktail
of aphrodisiacs and raging hormones.
nothing will cure this thirst.
you would have me beg.
there is a spark of sin
inside this sinner.
there is a pool of gasoline
i am drowning in
and you have the box of matches.