Tin Pitcher
In her heart just beneath her skin lays a tin pitcher.
The spout along with it's sides covered with frost from the coldest of water.
Parched lips long for a drink.
But without cup or glass.
I implore that I have swallowed fear of the utmost; Diving in head first.
A slow sip that eases the insecurity of rejection.
Another sip that interjects that you could be everything that I need.
One more to ensure that I would gladly drown to be loved by you
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