a red velvet cupcake wrapper casts shadows on the desk while
abandoned crumbs still cling to a dainty mouth.

a rose dress worn by rosy cheeks and some pink thighs,
pink thighs that stay petite to match that flawless, porcelain stomach.
a stomach he wants to grab, and pull, and hold.
fleshy lips and rough tongues.
pleasure on the lips, on the hips, on the tips
of the fingers
that intermingle, and intertwine
that trace the perfect buds of a budding girl.

stark white snow ******* the life out of the frozen ground.
stark white sheets ******* the life out of men.
gloves that come in neat little packages signifying
love?
lust.
trust?
a gift given that can never be returned.
she can never return.
yet the bumping and thrusting and heaving continue.
sweet smelling sweat and sultry sighs.
roses are not innocent.
they conceal thorns, they draw blood.

blood the color of the last remains of a cupcake,
frosted with secrets and assumptions.
a pleasure on the lips, but
never on the hips.