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I make wishes upon the stars that are laid out on your skin, the ones that shine almost as bright as those orange iris's, but just not as vibrant
I wish for fiery hair to burn me again, scar me if need be, so long as I get to feel the burning strands on, at the very least, my finger tip
Certainly, it would be more than I deserve but damn if I'm not willing to even hope that I could be indulged
I've deluded myself in dreaming of a melting orange popsicle making a mess of drops on my skin, when I wake I beg and I plead for a sweet sugary puddle to stick to me
Though, there is no fiction in the limbs of milk that have flooded my mouth but not my taste buds, no, they fly out of my mouth and back into the carton before I can even sense the fact that they were there in the first place
Could I ever really have you? Even just a little bit of you? A touch and a taste... would you give me that?