Cleavage, Like a Landing Strip For Idle Affairs

Raise a cheek bone to this joyous occasion of drunken love and sober lust. Eyes glistening with a well lit spark, a flame fueled by attention, a longing of eye contact, silently undressing me from across the room. The smacking of heels across this hard wood floor is hardening other things, like candies in pockets. Cleavage, like a landing strip for idle affairs, affairs of even the most clothed embarking on naked adventures. Shiny teeth, and it's only eleven o'clock, nails just as shiny but soon will chip while you claw anticipation. Surprisingly ripped off by childish elements, turning liquid into pretty idealistic moments shared behind closed doors; be it closets, bathrooms, doors, and stairwells. The closure of one thing and the opening of another - mind blown wide open. Pretty truffles, the perfect colour of under garments on an ivory skin. Lips marking up the most expensive of collars and tongues playing with the idea of sultry secrets that will be picked up in hear say. A Cadillac of fevers with their high beams on, flashing for photographs that won't be framed, underwear drawer material and a years worth of blame. Hand cuffed to ambition, on the coat tails of powerful people, with an enraged tipsy feeling that has casted stars across your eyelids, and we aren't talking makeup tonight, we ain't talking makeup tonight.