Blue, as cold, as dead, as your inert heart,
as your sharp lips, as your hurting words,
as the cold of your hands: freezing what they touch,
as the cold of your eyes that reflects your broken soul.

Red, as your hands that wound with their caress that cuts,
as these lips that bleed when they get in contact with your mouth,
as my mistreated pride, as my flooded eyes,
red blood of the dead of a not consummated love.

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