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.