• Isn't this the moment where she scribbles down her list?
    And jumps off her calloused feet, to land at his lips?
    To feel the love of him, the heat of him, his hands at her hips?
    Shouldn't his lips feel like a raging flame, something hers should douse?
    Instead it's a burning fire, staining her delicate mouth.

    Can she not understand that fire shouldn't be toyed with?
    That it's not what a girl should desire?
    That it's not what he should give?
    That she doesn't need it to live?

    His hands on her hips have loosened their grip, leaving nothing but a scar,
    And her tears have fallen, not so gently, burning like a dying star.
    Why does he walk away, his eyes gazing at the full night sky?
    Why does he walk away, leaving her and her only to do nothing but cry?

    Why, why does he feel like the stars are for him to take,
    when she has been tainted, when he impaled her on a stake?
    Can it not loosen it's grip, like his hands falling from her hips?

    Isn't this the moment where she scribbles down her list?
    About him and him only, the one she couldn't miss?
    Shouldn't his lips be delicate grips for her to catch ahold?
    Or will he leave her, leave her there, stranded in the cold?