Photo by Joel Filipe on Unsplash

across the restaurant, in scarlet
candlelight, a dark-haired woman’s
scarlet mouth curls into a warm
smile, her scarlet lipstick on his
white shirt collar — thumping
scarlet bass vibrates in my veins —
the scarlet of the punchbowl at
the high school dance —

and all I want is to spin with her
in wild scarlet arcs around the room,
knocking scarlet plates into scarlet
shards that stain the lacquered floor.

As this scarlet night spins on,
is the scarlet sun rising or setting?

Frankly, I don’t give a damn.

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