I walked into a cafe on a sunny afternoon,
I had a white pen in my pocket, and on the gift counter I found,
A red sheet of paper, yellow hearts painted on the corners,
I decided I'd write a poem, and I sat there two hours;
I had a secret the color of midnight dark,
I spilled it in white ink and the words turned gray;
Then I stretched and I smiled,
And looked at my mischief glow in the evening light;
The red and yellow beamed, and between them,
My poem, now free, danced in delight.

When I got home that night, once again I pulled out the sheet,
The glare of my room was bright,
And here it dawned that this was a scandal in white!
The words stood tall, bold and proud, hoisting my secret to everyone's sight;
Even the yellow hearts felt shy, and they melted into the red,
Now it was a paper of new color with words that should not have been said;
But then, I was distracted by the night breeze that crept in,
It tickled a wicked smile from somewhere within,
Upon my poem, I gazed sideways,
Truth be told, it never looked better,
So be it - if this was a sin.

I shut the window against the breeze,
And then I allowed good sense to prevail;
I lit a candle on my table, and held the poem in a roll,
The flame spilled into it and my secret waltzed bright orange;
I nodded in silence, for truth be told,
The poem never looked better than this flaming, liquid gold.

I dusted the char, before I shut the lights;
As I fell behind sleep's heavy curtain that night,
I dreamt my own room and opened the wooden closet,
And there it was - as if it always belonged,
Red paper, yellow hearts, and the gray words of that poem I wrote;
A thrill rose in my eyes and crashed back in little needles;
I didn't quite remember, when I woke up next morning,
If I picked up that burning candle and set fire in my dream.