Stained
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.
