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