Literature
The Pink Heart.
The bristly end of my paint brush,
Slides gently over the canvas of love,
That I've made for you.
Line upon line,
Red upon white,
Slowly all the colors blend,
Into the darkest pink of infatuation,
And then to the lightest red of love.
Quietly I gnaw the end of my brush,
As I stare at the heart I've made for you,
For us,
Imperfect though it may be,
All love is good and flawed.