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Category: Poetry
Hits: 1965
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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.