by Jay Willett ’20
Red is the rising temperature when I’m alone.
Red isn’t a goodbye; it’s an awakening. When
the dust settles and clears, and the party’s
over, there’s just him.
Red is the pain I’ve come to know all too well,
with his rough edges filled with true loss.
Red is worn, engulfing me throughout my life—
the losses, the tragedies,
blinding me with sharp ruby.
Hard truth: nothing calms me at night.
As I pant in the crimson aggression that crawls
into my life, I slowly choke and sputter on the
flames of intense vermillion,
releasing all of the horror of the night into the
cinnabar day, the blazing sun.
Colors aren’t poetry. Words are.