50 Shades of Red

The clock ticked twelve past noon when she arrived—our first encounter. Under the dimly lit sky that was my studio, she bore the aroma that would soon engulf the atmosphere so to match her natural divinity. As it takes thought and time to make a poem sing, or those three words which are carefully uttered to communicate eternal closeness, here, I shall only need but a moment to encapsulate the reasons I adore her—that of which are sentimental.

Born on a countryside across a vast and dry valley, she became all too familiar with the deep, sand-rooted loam that made up the earth beneath. She woke to the kiss of sunshine most mornings, and she slept to the charm of the moonlight through the night. In her presence I felt each and every delightful memory of childhood. Memories of mine, wrapped in the arms of my ill-passed mother. And memories of her own, having grown among many beautiful beings as like herself. But as well as the delights of the past, I do too feel her pain, her imperfections, and her predicaments. As do I, as do we all, have our own pains, our own imperfections, and our own predicaments.

She was locked away young by the very man who fathered her to which beauty she had become. Formerly sheltered from the outside world, until now, which at such time the world had the privilege to appreciate her being—that being one of extravagance. I too was locked away young, however, for reasons different. As she had been locked against her will by her father, it was my will that had locked me away after the passing of my mother. I, imprisoned in the near-cold and definitely dark voids of my mind. She, imprisoned in the near-cold and definitely dark cellars far from life. But she, as do I now understand for myself, had definitely matured from these imprisonments—willed or not. I developed a sense of appreciation for the delicacy of life. And she developed a personality for others to delicately appreciate.

She wore red as if it were her entire personality—and in part it was. But she was much more than just colour in my eye. There was more that had excited my pupils to dilate that evening. Such as the way her fragrance, that being of plum and a subtle hint of chocolate, curved around towards my nose. Such as her elusive legs that trickled along the glass she came in contact with. Such as the settling of those fragmented particles that sat alone after each heartfelt pour. Such as how the light, although dim, reflects her splendor when seen from angle to angle. And such as how each of her kisses remain tenderly felt upon my lips—stained like crimson lipstick on the edge of my glass. She wore red—yes. But she had been much more than that.

Her and I were the perfect pair. And perhaps it was destined, because I am a better man now than I was. We spent tonight together at the table. And no longer was I to be here in my studio lonesome. We shared our past as if it were one. And no longer were we to be imprisoned. Whether I, by my will, or hers, against her own, we both finally opened the emotions that had been bottled for such time—finally released. She was truly one to be adored. And I mean that with most sincerity. With each and every moment we shared, like the many sediments found within her being, I adored her all for those sentimental reasons. Only but a moment needed to encapsulate. But not only just a moment to appreciate. She had been that vintage delight. She had been that one soothing sight. She had been, Merlot.