Sharp

She does not wear her heart respectably on her sleeve,
But allows it to vulgarly lounge on nude lips.

Discretion is ill advised,
When adventuring through her territory of emotion.
Red volatility lines her system
And the beat of her blood does not know a steady pattern—
Lest she be at last serene.
(Stillness is death! She thinks)

The precise number of such trespasses is unnamable-
Every love has another on its heels,
A disappearance, a forgetting spell.

She shrugs: No one faults my love and lives.