Crimson Red

The air licks the iron

Of soft crimson cotton.

 

The red that you bleed

gushes

With an ache of thunder

rolling through your veins.

 

Your cheeks flushed

In a way he can only make you feel

 

Of flowers and

paper airplanes

 

Spinning you around in a

dizzy haze.

 

It is more than a spark,

Burning with crimson red.

It stings like citrus

in an open wound

Filling your lungs like a cigarette,

And acid sitting in your throat.

 

With each contraction

something grows

Like a wrench twisting the wrong way,

Making it hard to breathe.

 

As nothing collides,

But the waves are steady

And the stars less blue,

For a second everything is

motionless but in motion.

 

The taste of sweet raspberries

Rests on your lips,

With the smell of honeydew

Falling from the sky

to wish on like a shooting star.

 

There is something in the way

your stomach churns

That is uneasy,

But peaceful.

Like a dragonfly landing on your palm,

Or the bittersweet taste

of your morning coffee.

 

In your head is a buzz,

As if you were intoxicated

with one sip of red wine,

And you can’t describe the way it feels.

 

A sparkler between your fingers

Snaps like a pop-it,

Warming you with friction

in cold, winter breath.

 

It's something beautiful

if he makes you feel like crimson red

With each look,

And each stare.

 

Blue eyes of the ocean

Yellow strands of the sky

And red roses

That he paints with chaos

In your soul.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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