Every time I turned the car and halted to a stop, every time I saw the color red,
It was like the wind that comes sweeping up your skirt and 
touches the top of your head. It was more than a color,
a fading memory of dancing through time and space to gush all my feelings right back at you.

I could not recall when I didn't want to climb to the summit. I hate heights and would probably cry again.
I wouldn't know because I rarely wear skirts, not often enough, but oddly enough my favorite one is red. 
A long time ago, just the other day, a man asked me what my favorite color was,
"Pink"
"It should be red"
Power, passion, potential. 
red is the color 
of the leather scrunchie cinched delicately around my wrist,
The one for which,
you will never find in the back seat of your car.

My pages that hold my dreams are drenched in red.
Red leather on my skin,
pulsing again
I move, 
but it does not. 
Prescribing the next one, 
I think you would not choose the color that circulates me.