Pink

Pink arrives like the first warmth of breath on cold glass— soft, sudden, unapologetically alive. It is the color of almost, of not-yet-bloomed, of fingers brushing but not holding. It lives in the hush between laughter, in the curl of a lip before it becomes a smile, in the sky’s quiet confessions just before dusk gives in. Pink remembers how to be tender without being fragile. It is the flush of defiance and the sigh of surrender, coexisting like petals and thorns. There’s a wildness to it— sugar with sharp teeth, the kind of softness you could bleed for and still ask for again. It dances in sidewalk chalk dreams, lipstick smudges on coffee cups, and the echo of secrets shared under low light. Pink isn’t loud— but it doesn’t ask to be small. It glows, even when the world demands dimness. It is the echo of joy that lingers long after the hands have let go.