By Ruth Lu. Photo by Mariam Armisen
The sensuality awarded to red,
A color so aware of its power,
Stranger with the scarlet lips,
Do you know that you capture souls when you walk?
Are you not aware of the candor that comes out of it, you, so perfect?
My writings are not connected but the imaginary is delighted,
I don’t wait for you to turn around,
The world stops dead, the light is red,
You and your lips are even more red,
My ancestors would scream for I am no longer pious,
Does it even matter these days?
The young lady executing a sprint,
Would have touched me and lit me back up,
In the momentum, I am not the only one she struck,
Others did not escape,
But, to only me did she smile before turning back,
I felt my heart and my face wrapped in an embrace,
On my face, a smirk
With which the Golden Gate’s length could not compete,
Excuses, hands, polished nails,
A distance quickly bridged by glances,
Through a stranger, you sent me a note,
On which you made me promise to wait for you,
I scanned the room and rushed through this note,
From afar, I could feel your eyes in the depths of my being.
Someone was coming my way, you maintained your gaze on me,
He came closer, you were fuming,
And the only thing I could think of was my kettle,
So, you came to me, embraced me with your suspicious kindness,
One too many glasses and I was conquered, your smile widened,
We wanted it, we have been waiting for it ever since you touched me,
Thus we recreated the mid-day scene, she brought me to her chest.