A glistening shine reflects from the screen onto your eyes, with my arms around your neck and my hips between your thighs.
Exchanging kernels and extra calories, through basic motion and abnormalities. Seen as tragic to the public as we sip our cup of tea.
Red marks and sore spots trace all around your skin as we wait till daybreak for they'll remind you of your sin.
Coating the evidence in metaphorical bleach, a treasure so practiced, that even scholars can't teach.
The doors creak open, then shut once again, but the curtains remain wide, letting sunlight soak in.
Your low violet essence only travels so far, it's now become a part of the person you are.
Your trail, more colorful than your true sexuality, is often enclosed in strict confidentiality.
Decking out excuses like smooth playing cards, all the males draw an eye to the prize across the yard.
The evening has drawn, and he seems like a charm with sparkling eyes as he links with your arm.
A second, a third, and a fourth quick glance. A slight pang of hurt through interpretive dance.
The music drowns out, engines shift into gear. But suddenly that feeling of violet is near.
Communicating through windows I preferred to be bullet proof, violet sits like a passenger, repressing the unspoken truth.
Like every other attempt, you soak right under skin, and our nightly affairs are now left to begin.
Only this time is different, unique from all the rest. Followers were creeping, making us their one conquest.
Bitter lies and your disguise, cross morning video tapes. It's a shame, they all realize, your carpets match your drapes.
This one exposing incident, you're sure that you are torn. At home is where the violet sits, it lays, it cries, and mourns.
The television buzzes, the house is awfully grey. The rooms feel mostly dull, as violet colors fade away.
A secret is all it was, and all it could ever be. Now two are left to suffer, in a shameful eternity.
