Particles of wind dance through your hair

Sweet summer brown like a rich toffee tune

Back to the place where we know we belong

I hope that we can stay here for long.

Blue leaks from the sky into your eyes

I always wondered why they pierced like ice

The dress caressed your legs, your spine

All of the twine

So finely woven like the story of our love.

Too bad that it was only a line in a sour comedy,

As sour as the brine that scorches pickles like

Bad wine does to your throat in the nighttime

When you never in your life drank.

This poem is stank.