i like the way her mouth moves when she’s wearing red lipstick, like a fresh rose blooming in the morning sunlight. when she cries, i think of dewdrops glittering at tips of her lashes. when she smiles i swear i feel strong enough to tear the whole world from my chest. i wish i could give it to her. i would, if only she asked me.
she certainly deserves it.
when i think of her, i see passionate red. she tells me she likes that it’s the color of blood. it makes sense, of course, that something so vital to our existence, to life, and to heart, would be red. she’s often around it at work, and when she tells me about her patients with such animation, i find myself falling even deeper in love with her. red is the color of fiery anger, of passion, of love. i watch her drip with love for me. she’s got cheeks like cream and roses. she’s got a petal soft touch.
i want so badly for her to bloom against me.
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