I drink, tonight a red zinfandel. It tastes tart and sweet but time will tell.
I use it to feel warmth at night. It’s soft upon the tongue, like when you would hold me close.
When I wake, it’s fine if I am ill.
Because the body should ache, as sickening as my heart breaking feels.
He is warm, his shoulders are broad, and his hands are calloused. His hair, a sandy, brownish-red. His laugh, a chuckle. His skin a patchwork of freckles. His soul hidden behind those dreamy, coast-blue eyes.
He is gone. He is a was. He was warm, his shoulders were broad, and his hands were calloused. His hair was a sandy, brownish-red… but now my loved is dead.
Roads Go Ever Ever Ron 