Monday, 23 November 2009

  • Red

    Red.
    is the color of
    his jacket,
    my lips
    when I bite into them,
    trying to hold back
    while holding on to the past
    and what he did to me.

    Red.
    is the color of his hair,
    my hands going through it,
    and us being through.
    The promises we made,
    and the ones he said he'd never break.

    Red.
    is the color of his eyes,
    his daily devotion,
    his anger burning within;
    all desires waiting to swim free.

    Red.
    is the color of his tongue,
    of a song waiting to be sung;
    a security belt fastened.

    Red.
    is the color of hunger,
    the color of satisfaction.
    The color of "I love you so much"
    and a few minutes later
    "I hate you with a passion."

    Red.
    means we're dead.

    Red.
    is the color of wanting and then stopping;
    constant contradiction.
    Red.
    the color of dead ambitions and lost addictions.

    Red.
    is the representation of all the people he killed.
    Red.
    is his face
    as he tried
    to keep everything in place.
    But by the time I met him,
    he had already fallen [with]
    ill [intent]

    So what inspiRED him to go and set himself on fire?
    Was it redemption he desiRED?

    Red.
    is where I lay hoping
    he lay restless without sleep each night.
    Red.
    is me putting up my hands
    declaring my fight.

    Red.
    is me telling him
    I still have a pulse
    and everything will be alright.
    Everything will be alright.