Hued, red like the setting sun, fire-like. It's kiss a torture to my senses, ecstasy. Yearning for my next rush, desperate, I- Sit in my bungalow counting grains of sand. The food is bland at night, no spice- So I peel a petal from your rose, rest it, On my tongue, it's last vestige, Or hint of fragrance, gone. Just brown edges wilting more day by day. My once crimson blood has stained the stem, Brown, like the dead leaves of Autumn. My hands and fingers pierced, in remorse. Punishment maybe or just carelessness. Too bad but I think low tide has come, I can barely hear the waves, or your voice. They are somehow silent, now, in my head. Peace, maybe forever this time, my waiting- Done, as this life is sadly tasteless, Without you, I come...