You're not my “something real”,
not my “wish upon a star”.
Even as you lay here with me
my mind complains and my heart
disdains.
You are not my drug nor the White Rabbit
from such tales.
Even now, as your lips touch mine
the breathing of my brains holds static.
You warm hands exploring every inch of
my **** body, however, those tell a different
tale.
Every hot spot on my flesh you slightly caress
makes my nerves erratic.
Beaconing to me with luscious promises
the only way you can stir my breath.
See?
Just a hobby, only a pastime.
All we seek based on carnal sin.
You are not my treasure, nor am I yours-
and yet we choose to linger entangled within
these sheets.
We seek the comfort of compassionate hands,
of accepting lips, God we are insane.
All we come to find between us is but a
way to **** the void of Time in our shriveled
little hearts.