7.24.09
Dear one, it is cruel the way you play:
formatting my little strings to your face,
your hands, and letting winter seep in.
My own darling, with your stormy gallop,
steely eyes on my skin, far, far away
your Neverland, and I, stunned, mapless.
Lover, the eyes of a thousand men rain on me,
I close my shutters and turn my face to yours,
here, yours, a north facing woman; quiet, so quiet.
Sweet one, pray tell, what am I to do?
All my strings are tied in knots, and here,
chilly, limp, spitting, mapless.
formatting my little strings to your face,
your hands, and letting winter seep in.
My own darling, with your stormy gallop,
steely eyes on my skin, far, far away
your Neverland, and I, stunned, mapless.
Lover, the eyes of a thousand men rain on me,
I close my shutters and turn my face to yours,
here, yours, a north facing woman; quiet, so quiet.
Sweet one, pray tell, what am I to do?
All my strings are tied in knots, and here,
chilly, limp, spitting, mapless.