Borrowing, not mine.

it's so fun, playing with things that aren't yours.

the mystery behind such an object. it's personal value,

it's curiosity grafitying qualities.

how i love to know the unknown in the objects i play with, once was hers now sort of mine as she sits on my fingerstips.

you put them away, then you play again.

you leave a few days and you cant seem to get it out of your brain.

that itch. let's play with it again.

it's not mine, but damn dont i love it!

taboo?

if you will.

i semi steal your kisses and caresses,

your sweet stare, your underwear.

that bite on your lip when i ask, "can i touch you there?"

it's magical maybe,

this borrowing of time,

of almost illegal circumstances,

my prints are everywhere on you, as i play with these things that aren't mine.

and i wonder,

will i get time?

will the bail be too high?

wioll i make it out of this life of crime,

stealing and plundering and biding time,

as i pine for the things that aren't mine.

and of course how could i,

possibly plead any right?

as i so freely let you steal and borrow what's not thine.

pulling and kissing what i thought i could keep to myself. let's share, 

i thought,

my stamina like steel wrought,

hard, wanting it all.

but i still realize,

you're one thing that's not mine.