When the song looms on a repeat tune; the kind that gently hops around the parameter of your heart, so does the aura of him. Red; the color of the show. The essence of time. The feelings at hand.
Raw, the smell of meat. His flesh underneath. His open words… wounds.
He’s on the highest shelf, never to be let go. It’s only when fate’s been absurd, for things like these.
Fresh, his words forever and ever more.
Impervious, the surface where the heart bleeds and tries to get into.
Red, on the palm of the hands, with the feel of his head.