She pulls off the sheets that otherwise lay bed to peace, she puts on what she has to and tells me to leave. Such doctrine that speaks aeons over and her subjecting me to a cruel corner.
Her heart if pureed, could whip up a sorbet, cold red trinkets of ice, and her lips when locked with mine could only make me pray.
Abstinence makes the heart go wander and lo this monk fares down the beaten path, but ever so softly he treads for the cobblestone is only glass.

-Angad Nanda