Red

Red.

Hot as asphalt,
Whipping against the wind,
Beating its drums.

I love its song
with raw sounds,
but only two share our sadness.

Red in your truck.
It goes great on pizza.
It tasted better on you.

Right next to the shower,
a nice wet shade,
painting the steam-covered mirror.

There it is again.

Underneath the sheets,
plastered on the ceiling,
Staining every rented room.

In all its flawed beauty,
Casts ever so dimly.
You still see its hues.

Red
is your favorite color
and the last look from you when I left.