Red

It wasn't a siren

or roses.

It was the velvet of a curtain

never fully drawn.

It was lipstick,

worn only once,

Pressed to seal a love letter

that was never mailed.

It was the dyed wool of a winter coat

left behind on an empty chair

still warm,

a secret stitched into the lining.

It was the ribbon

that tied a box of photographs

no one opens anymore.

It was the slow burn of dusk

on the edge of the floorboards,

as the sun folds herself

into the hem of the horizon,

a blush of a memory

that refuses to fade.

It wasn't a flame -

it was the embers,

the heat that lingers in the ashes,

the red that stays.

Participant's Poems