Isn't it a pity that,
what she and I have
might be a
foretold; untold tale?
This writhing soul might be a fool to be
- t a n t a l i z e d -
by her honey-like scent,
with the topical rose redolence;
percolating every existing room for air
in my thickly tar-scarred lungs
from every hush of her troubled breath---
only then to realise that
every passing seconds spent
have always been a constellation of
== inane innuendo ==
to pique the lovelorn in me.
There's always something in me that's been worried of her troubled breathing. She doesn't smoke, so I'm concerned. I mean, her lungs aren't tar-scarred like mine.
P.S: I like the smell of her perfume.
