Those fingers, sliding up her neck…

Those fingers, sliding up her neck,
Then down the porcelain of her back,
Are well aware of self-esteem;
That lovely object of their play
Rejects the status of a prey
Whenever she’s with him.

And feeling passion is a gift
For our consciousness to shift
Into the realm of selfless joy.
Its lack is nothing but a bug;
A shameful OD on the drug
We all so sneakily enjoy.

Who draws the line between lust
And love? Is mutuality a must —
If one decides to sacrifice
Whatever makes him so unique?
…Oh, boy, stay cool and don’t you shrink
From emptiness inside her eyes.

And loving wouldn’t be this hard,
If you could hack her ruby heart
With something better than, “I think,
The galaxies are such a waste
Before the splendor of your waist
Which I admire more than you think.”

She thought you were a fucking prick,
Talking too fast, yet looking slick,
Reminding her of her ex, Chris,
Oh, what a shame to realize,
You do not have his stupid eyes
He kept wide open when they kissed.

…A whole new world behind her smile
That she had worn just for a while —
Until one night you two got high:
She called you “Chris” too many times
[Oh, fuck, I’m running out of rhymes],
Love, lacking lust, is doomed to die.

There is one thing I want to add:
Go, throw away your squeaky bed,
If you, indeed, can’t get enough
Of love you’re making every night
Or if she says, “You’re not alright!
Make love to me, don’t make me laugh!”

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