The compass doesn't point north
And there's the illusion of being alone
Lost, but not by yourself
Isolated, but for soft hands on skin
And the fine sheen of sweat
The keening cries
And the weakness, and its sweetness
Of succumbing to everything it is
Impoverished of lies
But completely sated
With a hunger that is fed
Just barely
Every time.
And always it's soft hands on skin
The keening cries
That call her back
But every time she grows bitter
Just as she always will for only moments
And she's cheated come every dance
And every chance she is empty
It pains her to try anymore
She makes excuses
The begging is primal, and she refuses
Her passion is in the firm hands on her skin
Teaching her.
Showing her more than his words
He doesn't speak - he doesn't need to
There's no demand in his hands
Just a kindness she clings to
She is sated
Completely and always
Every time.
Everything is wrong
But everything is important
In those firm hands.
