Speak Red

He spoke in stop lights

and poinsettias

when we had conversations.

I tried to tell him

about the language of canaries,

blue bonnets, and ivy covered walls,

but he insisted on strawberry meadows.

I never enjoyed the squishy texture,

but he chose to nibble on each seed

until it wedged between my teeth.

I asked him when we could enjoy clear blue skies

but he wrapped every sentence in ribbons.

I felt tongue-tied in knotted topics

and he smoothed out the edges

with red flags and crayons.


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