fever and pitch

You might have stolen a peek at
my blushing cheeks
had these pouting lips
poised to kiss
hadn't fevered in pitch
now these cheeks are washed in pallor
The waxing heat
of my brow so flushed
pales to this lip adorned mow
that forms and shapes and quivers and moans
as much as it does so now
i cannot convey how my cheeks, in dismay
seem ruined -  so swamped from mine eyes
that leak their dis-pair and flood without flair
which should with allure been aware
my ruined faux coat - adrift and remote
would stand alone but for such crowds
that came to see cheeky - all heavenly pinky -
but the lips once more have taken the floor.