Liquid Love

Your love tries to drain me, but I won’t let it be—I have my bottle of water.

The first time we met, under my arms were wet—thank you D.O. for working harder.

The first time we kissed, there was a mist on my lips, but it disappeared with passion.

When we said “I do”, my forehead resembled dew—tux sleeves are just big napkins.
Sweat on my chest; let’s not mention the rest—that first time we made love.

Streams down my cheeks, at our baby’s first squeak—experiencing my first “little hug”.

Water on my brow, learning how to plow—digging dirt to experience gardening.

No liquid in my brain, fighting this migraine—but smiling as you watch Tonya Harding.

My socks are soaking wet, I smell like a pet—mowing just to keep you at bay.

My eyes won’t stop pouring, this onion is roaring—for you, I replicate Bobby Flay.

My back is a lake, this shirt you can take—painting every room a different shade.

Now I’m ready to quit, there’s sweat in my knee pit—hiking a mountain for play.

Is this sweat in my hair?  Hey, I don’t care—about to toss you into the ocean.

My arms are completely covered, my muscles quiver—rubbing your back with lotion.

I’m forced to hydrate.  For you, my mate—because I try to rise above.

I may smell like a horse, but with no remorse—for you, I drip liquid love.