The Colour Red

He said I love you
like he meant it
and at some point,
I believed him.

That point came
a few years too late
but that’s
not really my point.

My point was
that I should have
loved him back
in a way that could
accurately describe
red to a blind man

but red is
the haze that fell
when he left

and all I had were
long runs along
long coasts 

and red is the liquid
that continued pumping
oxygen through my organs
allowing me breath
to experience the emptiness
that lived in the hollow
he punched through
my chest.

Red is the lips
that knew mine

and traced poetry
along skin
in goosebumps
that have never
erupted since.

Red is the smell
of old spice and berry
lip smackers and
onion goggles and
laughter on a warm couch
in a cold room.

Red is the day
I realized I was
capable of downing
whiskey from the bottle
and mix
a packet of benadryls
to sleep in a bed
that was empty

and silence my brain
which was not.

Red is the photograph
of us dancing
on the coasts I ran through
trying to leave
and taking with me
grains of Vancouver
in shoes that have since
stayed in China.

Red is the stitch in my side
everytime I run along a lake
that doesn’t have a coast

but flows through a city
that I no longer call home
and 
red is accepting that
I had a love once.

And it was real.


This piece first appeared on Medium, published by Poets Unlimited. If you’d like to read more of my words, you can do so here–> @CharlleyThen

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3 thoughts on “The Colour Red

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