I am but a moth before your flame 

Voice crackling as if atrophied from lack of use, 
Decade of smoking, or perhaps excessive cocaine use. 

Sit like a sensual goddess 
Tilt your head 
Slightly to the side 
Hide your intelligence 
Behind your atrophied voice, 
Crust, raspy, 
Crackling like a door that’s grown tired of being closed 
You are an image of perfection,
and

I am but a moth before your flame

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