Red

I'm writing in the way that I always do.
A slice of thigh shows through the rip and threads.
I unravel the tight coils of a chromatic fortnight.
—Dionysian drunk and fanbrushed cherry tart red—
Plummy lips part wide, and there's a web, dreamcatcher-like, meant to capture your words.
I suck the juices from them—rich bittersweetness.
I wonder if my insides are dyed their colour.
You might want them to be black—
I keep saying they are garnet.

How long before I'm bleached by the sun?
I'm afraid of flying too close again, but I'd rather melt than shatter.
I'm arctic stillness, crystalline—made of sugarglass.
Cracked patterns like this and like that.
Explosive—stifled with fawn hushes.
Can you string me back together with straw?
Wear me around your neck?
I can settle in on your Midas pulse.
We can go to sleep—dream of utopia together.
We'll both be there, I almost promise.