Weather is dripping
from your tongue.
White of the clouds
is the calm
the calm you carry around,
the calm I lack,
the calm world needs.
Love?
Love is the crimson red;
of all the times
you have died
because of
your complexity,
For never fitting in,
For never being understood,
For never having been loved.
They say war is an opportunity.
Red tears are
a substitute for poppies.
But
how do you know
the colour of tears?
Who claimed it?
Who named it red, anyway?
This is an apology
to all the Colours
to all the shades I wrote about
without knowing
what a colour is.
Crimson Red
