She's a girl plucked among dreams, she is. In a swirl of red streams, she is, through the breeze like a lone ribbon bow. Savanna. With soft envy eyes and sharp hips. Savanna. Of fair princess skin and thin lips. Savanna, oh my-my. My sweet, sweet secret mistress. Savanna, Savanna. To be saved by her kiss once more and once over and over another in a mist tryst that she pulls through yearning. That she brings through most dreaded to uncertain delight.
It's a lost boy's fancy.
If only there were no others, but lo, lost boys are as hard to score as a shit dime bag anywhere here in the city, where heaven meets sea and sheep-flocked are the angels. For fuck, her lust wrings the words from my wrist. In despair, true form. Because she's not here, not really. She's only just before me with my eyes closed, all the colors of the rainbow.
