It was always silent in Prague when we knew where to hide (in the broken and dried  underground tunnels). The drips from sewers cascaded our blankets like mosquito bites. There were deadbolts like chastity belts on his eyelids, never letting me close enough to tiptoe through his hydrangea bush. He watched the back of my head whilst I slept, and counted every strain and grass stain that lingered in those follicles. I licked back stinging tears, black ashes burning in rages of ecstasy. The cement was smoldering ice against my flesh, the sensations mixing as an ancient stew pot in winter. I shivered, turned, and crept up to his ear, “I am a blossomed, kinderwhore of a woman. A trashy and greasy baby doll.” He laughed his head into my bosom, and fell into the grinning moon of temptation.