As much, in every man’s eye- eroticism brings excitement,
the lines of wrinkled sheets are a retreat without restraint
Every one of our kisses tastes like they matter; we flatter
each other on playing it casual— until anticipated and complete
She is no less than a queen; she sits on my thrown, ruled by these
words- all the shells of the shots I’ve shot; whenever we're around
we stain the ground; inhaling a bit of hell, with every bad habit
Moisture: more so to the reply of, “yes sir”
her tears echo soothing rain, but these tired red eyes don't see
much love- but still when it comes to touch; I'm filled with ideas
by her flood. Words keeping on flowing; but my regards to any
authority, I've been living lawlessly - against her authority
Old habits can’t really die when they pass,
even as an *** shakes backwards, with all the regrets to take
me back to my past. You can still taste a lot of things much harder
to swallow than your pride— that burning heat of passion, from
your mouth’s chamber: an abode of sweet remembrance
Now, as we must, not discuss about the label of us- in a nutshell
the conversation changes tone after someone’s nut is bust
****, how rough is that- we played a role to work ourselves
out of lust. We call each other, our Devil’s assistant…
