| France, Beçanson to be exact we walk hand in hand, loin to loin the scent of tomorrow's pasteries being made ignite a fire down, down below Memories, memories of anticipation of melted chocolat leaving my body to your tongue, of sonnets whispered in the tip of night and moans conjugating verbs nonexistent A gush of crisp evening air and the horny curtain sweeps over your beautiful face like the veil of a virgin bride I too am now ready to take my vows Our eyes meet in a torrent of emotions Emotions of many things felt--far too many to even begin to count Sweat drips salts, salts, my salt mixes with yours and a new Chemistry is born A new formular is yet to be discovered from this equation, this equation equating from one torrid night spent in the arms of love in a secret quater by Rue de Armant in Beçanson Je t'adore...
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