On The Verge

The hand is on the lever.

Lost in the galaxies glittering
Speckled within your icy blue eyes
Wrestling with the white-hot urges
To claim your beckoning neck

You intoxicate, piercing the pores
Leaving the senses drunk and alive
Arousing aroma fills the system
Flirting with operational override

My lips would be most welcome
As we are seasoned playmates
It's more so at this point, however
A curious game of self-control