Your lips are an oaky red wine,
And I won't have another sip of alcohol in my life
(If I can help it).

Your touch is acid rain,
And I'm a brick building in New York,
Slowly disintegrating with every drop.

Your eyes are the ocean on a foggy day
That I no longer wish to swim in
Since what happened on June 20th, 1975.

You're the flame of a campfire,
Burning my roasting marshmallow
(And people wonder why I don't like s'mores anymore).

You're all the stupid metaphors I come up with,
Trying to make my poems seem like
romantic comedies,
But I'm no Reese Witherspoon,
And this isn't Sweet Home Alabama.