Tuesday, February 21, 2012

My Baby's Got a Secret

I want to know your secret. I see it. Every day. In the corner of your mouth, in your eyes, in the curve of your hips, in the skin on your hands. Some nights I lay in bed and I ponder, how deep does it go? How far could I reach before you stopped me?

I think of you. And I worry about me and you and how we feel when we touch. Is it warm for you? Does it feel hot like it does to me? Your secret is electric and I'm wired for another taste of it. I like the shock. I like the thrill. I like the speed at which you race through me.

I'm restless tonight and its all your fault. I'll stay up late, wondering how you feel. Wondering what you would do if I told you just how good it is when you're close to me. Would you try to steal my breath, just to hear me gasp? I think you would, because I would if I were you.

How deep could I go? How far would I be willing to reach before I pulled away? You lock yourself up tight. I see you in your tower and I think of you and a white horse and how I want to ride away with you on the back of it with your hands around my waist. You're wrapped up in red gauze and I want to pull it away and see you the way you are when no one is looking.

I think I share your secret. I think I know where it lies. I think I could take it and run my hands through it and know that you and I are more alike than we'd either one like to admit. You and I are running on the same plane, to the same place, and we race like there's no one else in the world who sees us. We're bound up together and I can feel you all around me.

But I've spotted you and I think you see me coming. I can hear it in your breath and I can feel it in the air. I've got eyes like a cat in the dark and I'm looking for the place you hide.

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