75: Details

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Red is not a warning. It’s the we’re-already-here. It’s the war on two bodies six weeks in.

Red looks like the miracle I’ve never recognized draped in paper unwilling to bend. Smells like anesthetic. A deadened dead end.

Red tastes like the storm on its seventh day pour, when everything is wet except where it should be.

Red feels like a howl in my sex, as you left for the third time, when I forced you out, even though I asked you to come in the first place.

Red is an apology (I’m so sorry), the start of a rainbow after the lightening (I will never ask you to do this again).

***

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“Artist and model. New York, NY” Morris Huberland, 1940-1979