The Way to Your Heart
Is a Road I Love to Drive Down
The Way Into Your Heart
I don’t see a disc in the sky, dear Asha, and I’m no tourist, waiting for someone else to give me autonomy.
I have my own vision of the way into your bed. I don’t need to plead or use any variety of sayings to get you to participate.
I’m a smoking chimney of lust, and I don’t care if they enact legislation against me being so vigorous.
You can scan my heart and find it there, if you have any doubts about its existence.
But don’t make me wait too long or have to meet your uncle before we have our own shared moment.
The tension between us is not mild, and I know how to please you, which is no trivial thing.
I live to redeem myself for eating a little too much garlic the night before, but I cross that bridge.
How would you rate my style? Would you put our story in a magazine or some other potent place?
It’s done nothing but rain lately but I don’t want to return to the matrix as they say, I find a little bit of doubt healthy.
I never want to make you cry, except maybe on the day you graduate — with all the possibility of a permanent resident.
