I don't really want it.

Curves and curves, slight turns and indents, smooth to the eye. Nothing more than the eye, the lust is no longer evident in the soul of my mouth. The fingers of my desire are no longer able to see through the haze of unknowing treachery my mind perceives from my eyes. Tremor for a talk list, killing myself over the need to want however never wanting to actually want it because of the moral standing that my soul embodies. Caramel tight lips graze against my imagination, and inflated chests caress my mind's eye. But in the physical, of the flesh, I don't want the more surreal and real parts of the human anatomy. I want the God.