Red

You were always beautiful in red. It brought out the colour of your lips and the mocking blush upon your cheek. Red suited your pale skin.

Red. Your colour. My dearest. My doll. Porcelain. Painted. Perturbing eyes. Deep brown and wide.

Never-ending eyelashes that fluttered expectantly whenever a young man bowed. You would smile your sweetest smile. Smile upon graceful lips, now slightly parted.

Lon pitch-black hair you wore loose, even on Sundays. You knew very well what men wanted to give to reach out to it. Touch.

Little white hands. Fine and untainted. You used them ever so graceful, making sure people recognized your superior birth. These were not the hands of a farmer’s girl. These were the hands of a soon-to-be countess. Hands touching nothing but the whitest of sheets, the cleanest clothing and the finest jewellery. Hands that heaved nothing but a crystal glass of blood red wine.

Red. Blood. You were always beautiful in red. Especially now your skin looks even paler, your lips are slightly parted and your eyes are glassing over.

Please, don’t, don’t cry. A tear would stain a perfect face.

Perfection. Deliciously driving even the cleverest of men out of their heads.

Satin white and blood red. Pitch black and silver grey.

You need the perfect dress in red to make you flourish and bloom like no other May before.

I didn’t do it. It was them. They who drove me to it.

As I lick the wine like liquid from my fingers, I don’t need to remember the fading image of your blue-turning lips to taste the bitterness of your kiss.

The kiss that was never granted, but was taken nonetheless.