The cold bites bitterly at my face
Figures, the night I decide to go for a walk
This unseasonably warm winter turns to mace
Liquor warms but ultimately steals

The breath turns to ice on my face
The ice has a way of boiling my emotions
Bringing them to the surface
Until they're all out of space

The liquor causes flushing
Not only in the cheeks
But in the skin and in the the weeks
My skin tells more than I ever could

Time tries but can't tell all
Just like my cheeks the story comes from nothing
But it blossoms nicely
Into a beautiful rendition of the emotions within

The color of your cheeks when you first laid your eyes on her
The color of her lips when you first kissed her
It is the blood rushing through your veins every time you see her smile
It is the anger you felt when she told you, you are not worth while

I've seen roses damasked red and white -
None art like the delight of her cheeks;
But no such Roses;
May cure the breath this mistress reaps.
There art roses by the creek,
But none shall e'er match the sheen;
That lies upon her cheeks,
My reddened Queen.
             Alas, of all the Time; I have only thine -
             To dedicate this rhyme; my loving crime.

Glass wasn't made to shatter;
Paper wasn't made to tear.
Fragmentation is a side effect of carelessness, not of life–
Not of love.
A rose is not meant to be crushed, pulled apart petal by petal, simply because it is soft.
The doe, graceful and wide-eyed, was not created to die at the hands of a man indistinguishable from a snake in the grass.
The monarch does not flutter with lithe wings to be caught, classified, and pinned to a page,
Nor do the leaves change hue, turn crisp, and fall to be crushed beneath an entitled foot.
I do not paint my eyes so that you can watch me bleed black and gold down my cheeks,
Nor do I wear my heart on my sleeve so that you can rip it apart valve by valve.
I am not your window pane, nor your blank page; your willow tree, nor your frozen stream.
I am the rabbit sleeping deep in her borough; I am the bluebird flitting between trees.
I may be fragile, but that doesn't give you permission to break me.

I want the edge of Christmas, where the nights look like it's about to snow, and only the brake lights of cars are seen. The chilly air whips your cheeks as you leave the building. And because you know Christmas is coming, the nights don't seem so lonely anymore.

I tend to shy away from makeup
I rarely pick up spray or brush
My heart is in flesh beating
and will one day turn to dust

I don't want to put forth creme facade
so you grimace when it rains
the trails of salt from filmy tears
are all that streak my face

If foreign objects draw you
jeweled tones upon the eyes
I do not fault your fancy tastes
or call concealer lies

But love is not burst into fire
by the curving of a kohl stick
And cheeks that redden with a kiss
are all that I would wish
to feed the flame upon the wick
that brightens and brings higher
two souls too bright to miss

Her lips were pink.
Soft and sweet against my own
when she chose to give me a taste
of her affection.

Her cheeks were pink.
Always tinted with that color.
I never found out if it was from the
cold, or makeup, or simply because
she was with me.