A Handful Of White Cotton

Her smile can see right through me, Other's say. Her back when arched the cat strays. Most think her blood is red, it's really Blue, closer to purple, there is a rose. Seeing the tip of her pointed tounge, I see it slip through tight lip's, only once. The woman who played with fire, next to the tree, Down by the stream, where the green bushes are. I am to her what I am, Neither in love, not a one night stand. Nor a white bowl of cotton, I have picked by hand. Love to me is a green transparent dress, A bra that is pink and high heels that are red. This is not love wearing tight purple panties. This body of hers that opens and shuts, Comes but to the few, the few I can't have.