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