"You're blushing," Charlie raised
an eyebrow as his palm cupped
Rose's cheek.
"And you're seeing things," Rose
cleared her throat and started fumbling
with the pile of canvases. "Let's get back
to work."
"Oh? I thought we were," Charlie moved
closer to Rose.
Rose looked up and tilted her head
to the side. Analyzing each crevice,
corner, the fragment of time that
etched itself into Charlie's face.
What synaptic activity was
buzzing in his mind?
The light was trickling through
the windows that outlined
the walls, as if they were the
eyes of the home — blinking
in some light to cast away the
shadows that hung to the
furniture, to us.
"We are," Rose felt her voice
waver, grasping onto her
vocal cords, loosely refusing to
let her rapidly beating heart
influence the tone of her voice.
"Mhm," Charlie touched the paintbrush,
watching the fibers sprinkle iridescent specks of
dust into the atmosphere.
He looked up and met Rose's eyes;
the molecules were bubbling in between
them. "We are."
YOU ARE READING
shades of red
Poetrywhen you have too many thorns, all you can do is paint them in red, because, maybe then, they will look like petals [sequel to shades of blue]
