Your Lips Remain
If love is the death of romance,
Then you slit my wrists a long time ago.
I, a huntress of passion,
Priestess of proverbial clichés,
Drown in the scent of your glowing skin.
Tension dancing upon the accentuated lines
Of your ebb and your flow.
Penetrating your aura with the likeness of a feather.
Tearing at your identity like one of those magnetic personalities we played with as kids.
Your lips remain.