The cherry reflection of her smeared lipstick on the glass danced like fire
in a kindred colored wine.
Sad sips of sherry
In the distance, the setting sun ablaze on the horizon’s edge;
The sharp edge of emotion that she cut herself with
Roses on her desk.
Bouquets from the slits on her wrists.
She wept petals.
She bled blossoms.
The life that pulsed through her veins, the same color as love,
the mirror image of rage.
almost crimson
the color passion fruit should be
The fruit of her passion not met with action
Her love was never returned.
What a way to spend Valentine’s Day.
I write because I have to
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/february-7/
