(no subject)
Hating the brief moments of akwardness
Sitting there, staring, not knowing what to do
You're always having to make the first move
Black-painted fingernails fumble on a zipper
As hands clench around bodies
That noise on those lips
Caused by your fingertips
And the friction of hips
Oh, the friction of hips
And the rustle of bedsheets
covered in sweat and
other things we dare not mention
though we dream about them at night
'This didn't happen' says their mind
But in yours, oh in yours
The deliverance is just right
No sleep tonight, no sleep tonight
Just thinking of what happened
To them it was a 'meeting of chance'
But to you it was the world