i think of the lips i’ve kissed, i need the color red. i need dry heat and raw...

i need the color red. i need dry heat and raw burning skin to soak up the unrest that pools within me: sandy mouth, desert lips, dust castles swirling and metallic and open armed. i know our bodies in motion and that they are actually lying still, but it is our souls that intertwine, growling, footsteps stomping above our head. i am not red. you must bring it to me.