I wrap your roses around my wrist,
stinging,
shining,
under the familiar and friendly moon light.
Painting my initials across your palms,
with lip gloss that will last,
my glitter lingers in your sheets,
like the heavy smoke that watches us,
from outside the window.
You taste of trouble,
the divine kind,
and I am just a little bit addicted,
wearing a necklace,
bracelet,
jewellery set made of your fingerprints.
I come when you call me,
tangled and tingling,
at the end of the phone.
