The rips in my sweater
Are a metaphor
For the way your cold hands
Still keep me warm,
And your glittering eyes
After 5 glasses
Are the reason I've diagnosed myself
With insomnia.
Your lips part like the clouds
And expose my soul
To the warmth of your chest
And I actually struggle to breathe
When you say my name
But I can't think of a better way to die.