The breadcrumbs of the pleasure
are meant to be followed by the starved.
Casual touches and confessions
dictates how badly craving hurts.
Pleasure being a fucking tease.
Art making it easy to moan out ballots
and love-
Oh love, you are
an illusion of my desire.
A liar with knack for making me yearn.
A thief that steals my breath
every time it knocks on the door asking,
'Please let me in. It's hot
all I ask is for a small drink.'
A very good liar.
Really love you are asking for something more.
Something more than just a simple sample.
More than a simple pleasure which
I could give
but only in small quantities.
And we both know that will never be enough
for your parched throat and empty tummy.
But any more would be
taking away from the meal that I
plan on feeding myself.
Lucky for the both of us
And I am a greedy bitch.