Every room that I believe you will eventually walk into is where I want to be. I love you, what can I say my sweet hatred for you as a person is well above danger level but for some reason the option of leaving is as foreign as Japan’s exchange rate. You haven’t touched me in so long and yet every morning I feel your hand silently sliding up against my inner thigh and my every movement keeps your fingernails dancing lightly against the most sensitive part of my heart. Its funny how your past replays itself at its own advantage, your option to press replay is like believing Santa brings his fat ass down your narrow chimney. What can you say? Nothing at all which is why I live this vivid fantasy in my mind. If you could peak into my head when my eyes are closed R rated is that of PG. I don’t know if it’s you really, to be honest it might just be what I want you to be. I want you to come through my door push me hastily into the nearest corner while lifting me up and forcing me to love every minute of your presence while I shed tears of sweet surrender. Its one thing to share with someone how explosive their imaginary love makes you feel, its hard enough for me to even keep my legs closed and my mouth dry when your voice soothes my very being. Explosive conversation takes my dreams from a fantasy to a ménage a trios involving your perfection, my deep secret and the very wetness that marinates long after this sinful disease continues to entangle itself around my very soul. Hello Mr. Perfection my name is Summer I love long walks on the beach and would like an option to buy you, tell you to cut the bullshit and love me whole heartedly. Can I tell you what to say in advance and let you know what rhythm matches me best? I can whisper in your ear my favorite flowers and text you my favorite chocolates. Do you dare argue Mr. Perfection? That part of the contract is binding you are what I say you are because you are what I wish you would be. I wish you would call me and tell me that its all been a crude game of cat & mouse. Your tired of the bullshit and the foggy mirrors and wish to lay your heart on the nearest curb with a chance of me once again running over it. I wish I could take my words of frustration, ball them up and throw them over the nearest building in hopes of never having to speak them again. I guess this is how its suppose to be Mr. Perfection. Maybe if I knew you and you left yourself open then I would have a different name for you. There is no such thing as a perfect lover, but since my fingers are what I’m working with and my mind races at the very thought of you I will continue to have that fantasy till the day comes that I know you wont be coming at all.