Crimson Blossom

Crimson Blossom

Camera flashes taint the faces of those who reminisce in another’s gaze.

But a lover’s eyes don’t take breaks—not while the other’s in the way.

In his headspace, her figure flickers with the dignity that lit her shimmies

down the swaying double staircase.

If only you knew what the news would say tomorrow, you wouldn’t be so sure to leave—

where you’d come to be two dimensions over concrete.

The sun’s light you shied from was no more lifelike than the eclipse.

The camera frames the helpless form in this crimson blossom—distinct, not unique—

bloomed from sputters of a wilting tongue.

The truth behind this unnamed pigment is lost to a catalog of snippets and digits.

I won’t put words in your mouth—not when you couldn’t taste what came out.

On this day, the weather was the whisk, stirring frothing color to the surface.

I would give your lungs every breath I own—so you’d never feel this cold again.