Hush

I cross my thighs Yearning he does not leave And close my eyes Tucking the heart beneath my sleeve Lips that moat Words the heart streams Yet my tongue can devote to your puerile dreams Though I'm wistful to believe it's the endeavor of déjà vu I realize how quite naïve I've become here with you But if Luther could preach such compliance to one another Then surely he can teach how to concede our true colour