Urge.

How tempted was she

then it was different.

An occasional choke 'for wither

efferent, abatement.

That winter

wasn't any less enticed

perhaps sliced through

an irrationality in her eyes,

conducting a glance,

riddled

in woebegone moonlight.

Its those weekends,

rainbow'd grim,

carving attempts

in dismay

whilst we wasted 'way;

overwhelmed in gin

and unworn attire,

an ire token, taking

unspoken words

in a fake empire.

Now I'm frayed

shuffling too,

a virescent

asserting upon

dusted drawers

spray painted

in November chill,

though its not until

its left me coveting,

would she be tempted still?