The color of our passion deepens
As we lay in each other's arms
One thousand moments since the day we met.
It is the dried scars from the times we've cut into each other's flesh with our words
Harming each other's souls as if we were swift razor blades dancing to the tune of sweet melancholy
They say love is one inch away from hate
But how many times did we love anyway in spite of our war?
What is really hate when your touch feels so good?
What is really love?
Perhaps it is a blood rose.
Beautiful from our wounds that paint it red.
The magic of us existing with occasional sacrifices of each other at the altar.
Every one of our tear-drops falling onto delicate, crimson petals.
The flower, revealing its desire to protect itself from us and the world through thorns.
But who protects us from ourselves?
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