Chilled to the bone,
a magical metaphor.
A summer's eve on a winter's day.
A dying dream that won't go away
but only because we beg it to stay.
So like a dog it sits and waits
Anticipation in the simplest form.
Lipstick smears on the back of a dress
makes our minds swim with sin.
Take it somewhere private
and squeeze it till it bleeds.
Rip it to the core.
Trace it with your lips,
rub it with your hands
but when you're done
leave it be.
Let it drag itself home.
Anticipation in the simplest form.
-Written January 9th 2007
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