I’m seeing red, but feeling blue – and feeling blue means thinking of you. Of holding hands down by the cerulean seas where the salt dyes mix into the soft cotton. The rough sandstone grazes my legs as I climb up to watch you work – the indigo women toil against the waves.
The day ends, no longer blue – I venture down to the markets amongst the men, their bodies jostling against mine as I pass through crowds to feel the sapphire stain of your skin. The warmth within and the raw nerves our last meeting stirred, insurgent.


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