Soft hair (feathery) is wisps of smoke in the air. Polluted breath from lipsticked lips opens that door that I try to keep closed. So I stare at the firey-red ecstasy that I crave. But is it love? (maybe.) We'll see… And hands/fingers (no!) slither through my hair onto my face. No one knew (until now.) and now she knows. I want some lipstick on my lips.
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