My lips are red for you;
Imbued with blood you made to rush,
And muscles bid to tense,
Not without offense to them—
someone,
(—always someone—),
But then, you knew it;
You drew it up that way,
Blood-imbuer, trouble-stewer,
Trip before you run.

My legs tremble for you,
Under the pressure you twisted in,
And twitching heartbeat-lust,
Brushing against them—
whoever,
(—the same whoever who did us in—)
But of course, it’s fine;
Your design, it worked its course,
Pressure-twister, descriptor-lister,
Look back if you fall.

My breath parts throat for you;
Demands for words draw words forth,
Forgoing pleasantries and consequences,
Winces and shock from them—
anyone,
(—anyone;
they’ve not heard such blasphemy)
But then, not anyone’s there;
Ergo, we dared the fall,
Word-demander: fucking candor:
Don’t forget it all.