Navigating blind with awkward fingers, Previous touches once successful withheld. Trying to perfect an impulse, To make something familiar exclusive for her. Like twilight I am failing. For my eyes see a perfect sculpture, That my touch would not be worthy of. Guilt is 'liberty's' sword. With me impaled upon its russet blade, Willingly slain by its creators hands. I fall deeper in to despair, Carving myself a valley of shadows, That led me deeper in to temptation. Lies become you, Then you feel the air leave your lungs, When she asks you if you had a good time.