Color Between Us

Morning light spills across the room,

dust motes dancing in its wake—

like petals falling

from flowers past their bloom.

We laughed, tangled in quiet chaos,

feet brushing,

hearts colliding,

as if the world itself

had forgotten to turn.

Your voice moved through the haze,

low, breaking the silence in half—

and I felt the warmth rise,

from my cheeks,

to my lips,

to the curve of my throat

where your name still burns

soft as prayer.

It spreads through me still—

a crimson glow beneath my skin,

not shame,

not sorrow,

but something deeper—

the heat of being known

too closely.

That night stains me still:

wine on my lips,

on my tongue,

on the place between my ribs

where memory and pulse collide.

It seeps slow as scarlet fire,

filling every hollow space

where your touch used to rest.

Outside, the world shifts—

leaves turn and tremble,

edges curling into rust.

Even the flowers bow,

petals bruising at the tips—

the same shade

that once flushed my skin

when you looked at me

like that.

And still,

you linger.

In the curve of a glass.

In the dusk that bruises the sky.

In the warmth that creeps back

each time the world grows quiet.

You are the pulse

that hums beneath calm,

the maroon shadow

caught between want and memory,

the ghost of heat

I keep returning to.

I carry you in my bloodstream—

in every breath

that tastes like wine,

in every twilight

that bleeds red across the sky.

You are the ember

that refuses to fade,

the heartbeat

behind every color that burns.

And though time peels us away—

like petals falling from their stem,

like leaves surrendering to wind—

I remain lit

by the same glow.

The warmth of you

still flickers in my throat—

soft, steady, endless—

a crimson memory

that never cools.