If Your Turning Backs Were Bricks To This Craving Soul
If your turning backs were bricks to this craving soul
And your eyes not meeting my searching little windows
Then this bed is a twin to China’s great wall.
Enveloped with scorching breeze
colossal reaching, unheard touches.
Where have all the blazes gone
In every skin-to-skin
In every passionate skim.
Has the apathetic snow wafted the glares?
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