She comes and goes like winter clothes.
Another sad and suffering girl to adore.
A cascading wound of emotion to explore.
Another wounded heart to eventually ignore.
Burn my finger like spitting plastic so I canít hold the pen, the words.
They choke, like you do as the vomiting penis emerges from your shallow throat.
Deep thoughts are repressed as are your actions while undressed.
You call these minutes wasted.
Sour on the sweet lips I tasted.
Free your mind and your legs will follow.
Soak up these words with every swallow.
Send me some air; grant me this whisper to be her first.
Grant me this moment to surrender this thirst.
The night is her skin, soft and young.
The day is her heart, wounded and strung.