Swept.

Rags clenched knowingly as our feet scratch down the street,
Premature December’s whips are so cruel;
They prick you then tease and lick you at your cheeks.
And as she looks at her feet,
I look at the bass like bubble of breath billowing,
Being swallowed by the opening in front of me.
The tongue of the night is all I see.
And as she breathes heavy,
So closes a heavy unhesitant door,
Four scared rabbits rush so quickly,
Wrapping a sheet of arms around each other.
It’s a present which lies best unopened.

Hit the bed, hit me and I adore,
That nothing rhymes anymore.