I want to taste the sweetness of your lips again
again, and again
'til sweetness turns to ache,
and ache becomes need.
Old wood is best to burn,
old wine to rot in the blood,
old friends to betray,
old books to whisper truths too heavy for the day.
But your lips
they are the darkest wine,
fermented in silence,
laced with lust,
dripping the sins saints dare not name.
Fill my cup.
Let me be drunk.
Let me forget the light.