while you're content to hopelessly swim;
for a sinking feelings' worth the win,
my analogies, your clueless synonyms.
Its within these little things, I'd apprise,
no surprise for the size of your eyes;
just a broken grin or twenty winks,
us blinking through sorrowed ink.
Slowly the ink pales, creases desert,
hurting worse than simmering dirt;
if only it weren't the whimsical smirks -
of polished nails on my unclean shirt.
And once soaked, you've left me out to dry,
disguised to revise the fainting sunrise;
for 'neath the whistling winds, a rustle's rye,
your aching toes on otherwise tired thighs.
