Does it not drip for her as tears turn to blood?
Red would be the better hue
Don't you think Sal...then this dreamy blue?
Being quite literal with your grief's flood.
Perhaps I am too much of a cynic to believe
That your love is now a wave
Crashing upon the shore of her grave
But will rise up to reveal your new Eve.
Pull up the worn wooden chair
As I fill up your glass
So that we may toast to lovers past
And then rinse them from our hair.
