The Mirror held a moving reflection without capture.

Vibrations in air that allowed ears to be full of rapture.

The sounds of her voice lying next to you.

With red cherry cake lips And a bed spread of Winnie the poo.

There it was the photo of you two.

The memory usually blue is red, as with your cheeks too.

Let go of that photo but she is still in the room.

She nurtures your laugh and sweeps you up like a broom.

She is red because her heart is a cursor over you.

That is unwritten with words but sounded with action.

Red is something never lost but grounded in satisfaction.