Deep frustration, hot and wet in the dark endless night. Strange and alluring as the red hot coils of a stove, just begging to be touched.
Admittedly the forbidden fruit is the sweetest and who am I to deny myself? but forbidden fruit is forbidden for a reason and reasons are usually reasonable.
And then again, if something remains abstract can it even be considered real? is it possible to stay on my side of the line whilst begging over and over in my head for a taste?
were we in the same room I fear I am only one drink away from burning my hands on those hot coils and never once caring.
Not until the damage is done, its too late to take it back, and my hands are blistered and torn by everything I want but can't have.
YOU ARE READING
The Fire Within and the Ice that Burns
Thơ caa series of original poems and thoughts about love and lust
