Roses are red, so the old cliché goes,
Whiskey flows through her veins, so blue,
As she sits and writes to the man a highway over,
Another letter in the silence of her plaster-wall room.

Mr. Daniels hazing her vision as she scribbles in print,
Every bit of ink spilled seems to join together,
Sentences never deprived of each questionable meaning,
Her heart sucked of the blood she jots on the stationary.

The last poem he read assured she was in love,
Alone in her bedroom, craving every bit of his lust,
Wishing to intertwine their limbs between the sheets,
Taste all of the sweetness on his honey-lined lips.

Roses are red, as a child’s stanza begins,
Blue rests in her eyes darkened with sleepless circles,
The man this is addressed to is drunk by himself,
As the smoke of her mangled thoughts starts to clear.