She gets slippery at night when she's all about the need. The hunger that exists in longing eyes to feed. Longing eyes of pain she can't restrain but must because she's all about what's just and right and pure...
Hunger is human and who am I to judge. I'm the man she'll nudge and text for late night context...just to chill. The slip, the slide, the soul collide...until. Her impression requires discretion and I'm the man for the hour...or two. Without you...
Her saving grace is found in the mirror. Whose face to find is mine. To touch me is to touch herself for justification of her inclination and for such a soul...I am blessed for the night...
I see tears when you think wet. I feel fears as I am let...to soothe and ease with touch or grace. As I cusp the face of a goddess in my hands, I inhale her essence as plumes of smoke with prescience fill this secret dimly lit room...
That none should ever know how far she will go...in this world of empty. To find solace in this man of plenty she can't keep...but can have as they are the same. To forgo the game for a lifetime of moments that time could never relieve...
She gets slippery at night when she's all about the need...and so do I...
~Moses Apollo
No comments:
Post a Comment