not-so-familiar time zone

the vision of your face
and the smell of what
(i think)
you smell like
clutches onto my
shaking hands.
this butterscotch skin
changes to a vague
french vanilla tone,
and shows my veins
dancing (through) behind
paper-thin skin.
little white lies
caress my
so-smooth thighs
in the
of tonight.
and i cry
without crying
because i know
this is so wrong,
but i never take it back.
as i close my eyes,
i dream of the
time zone
that's losing its
more and more
by the second.
(i wish i were gone)

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