Musings: Red

REDI would love to write a book: “What i wrote during naptime.” Here would be one entry.

Red

To read you, is to watch you
as your arms tangle bracingly across my waist.
To love you, it is to breathe you
dancing inside of my lungs
– the cool touch of your whispered air.

You are so like the colour red to me.
Of poignant dreams
vibrant hues of madness vibrating outside the lines.
Pulsating rhythms of life, squeezed and punctuated tubular droplets.
Pinked out and the steel-cut cry finding your voice at midnight,
as your mouth, new, soft, warm, roots in the dark.
Afterbirth, the colour of skin pushed back,
and prickled ooze: your face emerging punched red with anger.

You are so like the colour red to me.
Of passionate foot-stamping and flustered attempts
at independence.
Your face squished and pinched, howling, demanding. More.

The hotness of the fire, burning bright inside of you.
The flames lick and steal, make you.
Like the pulled together bits
of a tired rag doll, you are stitched from brightness made real in fire.
Passion embraced.
Red like the hot poker at my back.

You are so like the colour red to me.

To read you, to watch you, to love you
is to stand still in the bright wave of
burgundy, poppy, crimson and fire engine
there to forgive and to love
ignition, torch, burn.

You are so like the colour red to me.

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