The tingle of your red lips on my sensitive skin lasts for years like the impression of your hand in my gray, clay heart,
Through all the molding and scraping, it is but a finger that is left, not a hand, that you use to brush a fallen strand of mahogany hair behind my ear before placing the careful words chiseled in stone before me,
So close, that when you let go of my sculpted hand, it crumbles into nothing, for there is no reason for the separation to ever occur,
With a smile twinkling like the bulbs on a wintry Christmas tree, it begins to dull in the progression of the night,
The soft features you had are but sketches on my closed eyelids, as I sleep next to you, my hand resting on your chest as your heart,
You kiss me goodnight with your red lips, and it leaves an impression in my clay heart forever