Her gentle, silken hands rest
Upon her accented peaks,
Dreaming, longing, pining for him,
As she lets out a little squeak.
Her arms wrapped
Around her own body,
She whispers quietly...
The words she wants to hear
Buzzing in her ear,
Hot and heatedly.
These dreams are so,
So very sick,
And the child knows that well...
The girl can do no more
Than hope and write messages,
Sending them out to sea.
And by chance,
If someone finds these bottles
And scoops them out of the water...
Do you think they would read their content and
Understand the words, "Wo ai ni?"
A nimble, piercing finger draws
Out slowly as she breathes...
And her murmurings slow to a drawl
As the little one dreams of me.
I am lust,
Powerful and almighty;
There simply is no conquering my
And no one--
Not even the small are exempt
From my tantalizing pull.
The child that I speak of now,
Is masking her desires
With pained, anguished glances;
She will write poetry of what she feels at night,
And recite it where the monsters have been.