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