Red.

Red. 

Red is what you feel when you see the one you adore. They are sitting on the kitchen counter at one on the morning with messy hair and a bowl of cereal and you feel red. 

Red is what you feel when their body is pulled towards you and you feel the flame that you've kindled together. You want them, you feel red. 

Red is what you feel alongside the rose they present you with. They smile and bring the red to their cheeks and yours, you feel red. 

Red is what you feel when you kneel in front of them with the rock on a circle of silver saying, 'Will you be red with me for the rest of our lives' when they say yes, you feel red. 

Red is what you feel when your first little one cries for the first time and you know that you'll protect that child with everything in and out of your power, you feel red. 

Red is what you feel when the one you adore starts yet another screaming match. You yell and yell and the cheeks once red from the roses are now red from the harsh words, you feel red. 

Red is what you feel when you come home and everything's different. Another's clothes have been discarded down the hall on the way to the bedroom and as you throw open the red-painted door you know that this is it and every other form of red was leading to this, to the worst of the reds. The lovely reds always end in the ugly reds as you see them caught up with another's flame. That used to be your flame, and that used to be your rose, and that used to be your bowl of cereal at one in the morning. The rock with the silver is tucked away, they didn't need it for this purpose, it would have just gotten in the way. The screaming matches take on a whole new rearing form of a beast and you feel red. 

Red is what you feel when you gather your clothes and your favorite book, your roses and the rock, your bowl of cereal and the flame, and the little red child. You pack these things as they beg you not to leave. It was a red mistake, they say. You feel red when you let them go. 

Red.