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When ever you should,
Hold my gaze with a look.
Touch my face with a whisper.
Pulse my heart with your anatomy.
Do it! Do it!
Just do it to me.
I’ll take the hurt of your deception.
Knowing it’s his bed you’ll be in tonight.
It’s my heart that’s pulsing through your dreams though.
This blood filled chalice from which the sip of love is taken.
This heart cracked goblet from which the wisps of truth evaporate.
Where then is this really happening?
What is the real you truly doing?
Why do you do this to me?
When will I stop allowing you too and see?
Me in you, is sumptuous .
Me to you is exquisite,
in flavours exotic and wild.
Erratic moments of passion,
Ivey lush green opulence is the jungle of this deceit.
Your body of action, in hindsight nothing but desert.
Barren and sandy, blowing dust in place of kisses.
A million stings, each grain flung by the Sirocco of your love.
Alone, tangled in the undergrowth of emotion.
Warm night air caresses these limbs, not you.
It’s you I feel though.
In spite of the 1000 miles between our beds.
Longing for the threads
To weave this distance together.
To spin me again into a web.
To weave me again into your head.