the slow art of breathing bitter

Melancholy Euphorie

The crisp summer wind

burns the dark curves

of her magenta lips;

She quivers in the inescapable heat,

and the walls around her tremble in something—

oh, goddess of love.

The red-hot sun burns her eyes—

Lipstick-stained coffee cups,

numbing feet in response to heated touches.

Several emotions threaten

to burst out of her skin pores;

it's getting euphoric now:

A metaphor of being loved in nothing—

like a ship of burning desires stuck in the sand.

She can't feel as a whole;

it's suddenly getting cold.

The touches fade away;

the metaphors remain as they were left.

Blood-scented roses don't burn like dying embers;

They flicker in the blank moonbeam.

A wind comes gently,

and the letter flies away.

A single poem of the melancholy moon;

How it left you like a red-raw mess,

scattered love, burning cold.

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A/N: You know what I dream about? *glances meaningfully at the little Vote button*