Fingertips

Of moisten lips and swerving hips,
I miss most your finger tips.
The syringe that injects in me
your sickly, sweetly poison.
Piercing through my skin so thin.
Envenom my blood as it rushes,
rush to my charcoal chamber.
From my swollen veins, black blood it swigs,
then in subtle style subsides,
leaves no track or trail behind.

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