I hear you whirring, staring blankly, through your frames,
my ties too close, and my button remains unruly to contain,
a fragrance tickling the membrane, sparking the brainwave,
of the first, misbehaving but whether necessaryily dictating the
remaining luster locked in spatial-twine like staying beyond your bedtime,
you struck me like the catapult that couldn’t sustain the tension,
damaged as she, possessed as he, they flee with no direction,
in sight the temptress, oh you, do you love the might, fight or passion?
is it secret, lies or fashion?
I guess I’m just the flavor of the month.