lust.

Lust is a women dressed in red

Lust is a bed with no more than sheets

Lust is the notion that love is not real

Or it is

But it does not last

And we’ve both had our fair share of shattered glass

While picking up the pieces we confuse glass with chocolate

And we’re soon surrounded by pools of crimson

We start to bandage over old wounds

And we see people walking around with not even a single bruise

We wonder how it is possible

Then we realise; feelings are left on the shore while bodies ride the waves

 

Lust is not love,

But it does not end in the carving of caves in our hearts

As love so often used to.

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