Ice Cream and Mud

Ice cream may trickle on furnace-hot days.
Mascara runs rivers of black with sad tears.
Feast on her cheekbones, the curves of her body.
With her, without her, both salty brine pickles.
When you are lonely, her absence is famine.
A bullfrog sings sorrow in mud.

 

Excellent! Very melodic.

 

Thanks so much, Lance! I appreciate the feature!

 

Thanks, Julie!