tyrants

babe, we ought to be

you make me see the world in color/
the sun and its heat is the same shade as the slash of red in your smile/ the same bright shape as the blood that suffuses into your cheeks
you make the glass curling in the backbone of my throat a little less biting/ dull the sharpness of my old aches and pains/ the salty flavor of ancient agony the soothing balms of time never quite quelled/
and in your embrace i find the lilting tones of a sweet solace/learn to find peace on an atlas