Midnight moods monopolize my mind and make me miss my moth. I murmur monologues and melodies that might measure the magnitude of my love, but music misses the mark and I measure the mammoth miles between my mattress and my man. I want more... magic moments when you memorize my moles, muss my makeup, my mouth, make me moan, make me moist, make me cry for mercy. Mischievous manifestations mirror my molten malady. Mesmerized, I must move with you in a well-timed motion, magnifying the mood of the moment, until we both, mostly muddled, can no more manage to maintain, and in a measured madness we are swept away in a madly magnetic meltdown. Miss me.