Tin Drum

This isn't appropriate, The way we tease each others eyes The way we look when no one is around. The small pitter patter of hearts becoming loud Echoing through the thoughts that race through our heads Contentious thoughts that beckon to be heard Brushed across our lips in an ultimate silence. A touch, blind Falling like rain, Meeting a desire that thirsts. Internally Crying desperately to be heard. Covering everything in sight until true desire is met. An orgasm of percussion Pouring Crashing down, pounding like drums The sound of our hearts. The very beads of desire that drip Dinging against our hearts like a drum. Without means to see it becomes inappropriate. As soon the rain stops