It's not the love, it's lust burning between the thighs
Turning 30, she's the vampire thirsty eager to bite every bit
At the right age to be the very woman, reinvented out of herself
Discovering the waterfalls and narrow veins thickening
Darkest fantasies and hottest fevers erupting through the blood
Finger-tip-soft touches while rock-top-hard contiguity emerges
Inhaling what she just exhaled, he clinches them together in the cycle
Swimming in a cloud of dizziness and perfectly wet illusions
Exceptional moments caressing the deepest corners
Palms on the sweaty back and tongues talk the strongest language
Gasping for breath, she sings her song to the holly microphone
Chins reaching for the ceiling, snake-like intertwining
Deeper dives, tout de suite, free and in a vicious circle till dawn
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