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...
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