A self-involved love letter

The last bit is my favourite.

Tonight she is every tear she's ever shed. And every tear you've ever shed.

An undulating transparency leaking salt water,
Each lacriform droplet reflects another disappointment;
Another love lost; another missing button.

Eighteen years of half smiles over shoulders
Eyes full of innuendo and desperate unvoiced adoration
The kind that secretly swells but never spills.

Tonight she is eighteen years of bitten tongues
And sweaty hands.
She's eighteen years of rhyming couplets
Viewed through freeverse glasses.

Handblown glass heart-shaped glasses.

Eighteen years of parlous tightrope walking
In a worn red tutu patched with dry woven grass.
She is a whisper, a sliver, a ghost;
A plaited thread, and this is her essence,
Despite a melodramatic facade of confidence.

Her sensuality lazes langoriously in the bow of her upper lip
A honey-flavoured droplet against her translucent skin that you are hungry to have.
And you have.