Foxtrot

Eyeballing you as a sticky bun; pondering how to reach out without getting stuck. "Perhaps it’s the flare of the Season, or more primal reasons, but I find obsession in the chase, if you don’t mind the pursuing." Your lashes flutter in exasperation, twin Venus Flytraps stretching before consuming, those pinholes inside lick the air around me, scanning risk and prospect within such veiled intent. "Are your legs prepared for the pumping, is your ardor thumping to torch my feverous mortal thrill, or shall doubt guide your undoing?" I load my quiver without malice, aware splendor is never afraid of vast effort.