Scorched

Without a fire in winter months, I trust my lips, if pressed upon your cheek, could chill the blood. But as our eyes meet and combust, my kiss will burn a path, ignite a thrill to scorch your skin with passion blazing long. As suitors meet and nerve ends rage with fire, as dreams are built on hope for love of strong en-kindled touch and couched in hot desire; yet, errant eyes and restless hearts erase the joy which once proclaimed the torch aflame, and vows arrayed in charred and shameful face now lie reduced to ash with none to blame. And though the lovers taste white-hot despair, each one feels caught in tempter's evil snare.