Garden Mist

...and I want to start all my sentences with the taste of his tongue. I find him locked inside my rib cage leaning softly against my heart smoking a stogie and strumming bones, where every thought of him is a losing battle between good and evil that I just don't truly want to win. A garden of mist dripped wisteria and criminal desire to cross all the wrong borders to nymphet hysteria. I'm afraid it might hurt a little, this promise to make me a woman again... engrave his name on my spine with a lovers knot of whispering pine a seven year itch into ivy climb. I want to know the sure feel of his lips on mine...splashed on all the inner walls of his surrender.