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. forbidden little white lies caress my so-smooth thighs in the not-so-darkness 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 familiarity more and more by the second. (i wish i were gone)
