Red

Poem for the lonely

She writes in red.
The memories are lucid, and the taste on our tongue is of sulfur.
She can hear the clouds whispering as the solar particles penetrate her bones.
She is not alone, she is not alone.

She drifts on the green waters with a hollow shell in her hand and as the wind takes the fragrance of her hair, she could never remember when.

She is not alone, she is not alone.

She always writes in red with deliberate words chiseled into her flash, leaving the moon scars for her to reflect