Pushed up against a wall, your mouth tastes like home. Past; pending on whether we allow ourselves to faulter, yet again, into each others arms.
You take my time, for it means nothing to me, and wrap your arms around solitude, where I sit, drunk on green liquor. Hair falls softly, enshrouding in dark fantastic, wondering if home will be created or destroyed. Sounds play in the background, but nothing matters, except your eyes on my breasts. A slight trick of hand and then down you go.
Morning will find you awake; wishing you hadn't done something you did. Morning will find me parched and perished, searching for lust in your eyes but finding only regret.
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