There was heat in your touch
of caressing fingers
a touch I yearn for when no longer here
but your presence lingers
in between my sheets
in between my memories of a sweet affair
when your body gave me the relief I wanted
and you became the air
and the blood that rushed through my heated skin.
There was heat in your kisses
that made my head spin
when you strode above riding me with pleasure
and your breast became tantalizing toys
for my mouth to play an enticing game.
You became a want every single day
and I lost myself to the love you gave
and so badly needed,
you became my heat in the coldest night
with your burning flame.
“The Moth don’t care when he sees The Flame.
He might get burned, but he’s in the game.
And once he’s in, he can’t go back, he’ll
Beat his wings ’til he burns them black…
No, The Moth don’t care when he sees The Flame. . .
The Moth don’t care if The Flame is real,
‘Cause Flame and Moth got a sweetheart deal.
And nothing fuels a good flirtation,
Like Need and Anger and Desperation…
No, The Moth don’t care if The Flame is real. . . ”
― Aimee Mann