my cheeks
my eyes
my emotions
my life

RED. ALL RED.

my poems
my music
my stress
my fingers

But then there is another.
"read."

He read the RED of my soul that I bled out without a care, completely forgetting that he is but a click away from reading me like a bloodstained magazine.
How could I?

I suppose it's nothing of consequence.
I mean, I tell him, don't I?

I try, at least.

It's not easy to put it into words, the RED that I feel.

It's not adoration. NO. It's something much stronger, much more substantial.

But I don't think it's love, not quite yet. So what is this RED that he gives me in the form of words and kisses, of warmth and walls?

It's up for me to scribe my own description, yet I cannot even begin to tell myself what I am feeling, never mind telling him.

I can't embarrass myself and turn RED
As I try to explain my RED
To the RED
that makes my life
whole.