Comfort
She stuttered over the words like that time she was losing her voice, a gentle soprano, “I love you,” she stuttered, love like red—like the polka dots on her dress, like the popular conception of passion—and you smiled like when you got your first car—the old red Honda with a broken mirror—and wrapped your arms around her, an embrace like a guard’s protection, when her fingers clutched your shoulders, her nails a deep scarlet, like her lips that you kissed again and again and you said “I love you, too,” like that was all you could manage because you were on fire from the inside, afraid that the moment would slip away like grains of salt in an irreversible hourglass, and she was caught in your grasp, her head on your chest and her hair against your chin was like tawny silk, then she closed her eyes—viridian—not blue, not green, but both—because she could relax in your embrace like blue, like calm—like peace, like safety—and it was just the two of you—the room was not there, almost cold but soft with cushions, but that was not comfort: that was false, like faux fur or faux truths (white and red and blue lies)—she was your comfort and you were hers.
She stuttered over the words like that time she was losing her voice, a gentle soprano, “I love you,” she stuttered, love like red—like the polka dots on her dress, like the popular conception of passion—and you smiled like when you got your first car—the old red Honda with a broken mirror—and wrapped your arms around her, an embrace like a guard’s protection, when her fingers clutched your shoulders, her nails a deep scarlet, like her lips that you kissed again and again and you said “I love you, too,” like that was all you could manage because you were on fire from the inside, afraid that the moment would slip away like grains of salt in an irreversible hourglass, and she was caught in your grasp, her head on your chest and her hair against your chin was like tawny silk, then she closed her eyes—viridian—not blue, not green, but both—because she could relax in your embrace like blue, like calm—like peace, like safety—and it was just the two of you—the room was not there, almost cold but soft with cushions, but that was not comfort: that was false, like faux fur or faux truths (white and red and blue lies)—she was your comfort and you were hers.
Hush your mouth.
