Rope.

December 29, 2011
They said your lips
were wine all burgundy
nothing but a quick evening drink
false relief
They said your skin
was fallen snow, as cold
as you were inside
They said your eyes
were midnight rivers, lazy
strolling toward the stars

They were all wrong. No,
your lips are not wine
they are fire and comfort
laughter and hope, and your skin
is the smell of springtime
the texture of scars and silk
and that perfect sinking feeling
your eyes, too, are not rivers
not even oceans, rather
they are the rope
thrown to one who is drowning





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