Blush.

You speak as though it’s a blossoming flower that blooms upon a welcome gaze, a sweet word, or a secret phrase.

Carried         
by               
the                     
wind 

on a spring breeze, and laid to rest upon the apples of your cheeks and the tips of your ears. 

a gentle touch of blush.

But what if it’s a fire, and every breath used to disarm sends

                           high                  

flying       
embers 

the

until floodgates are forced to open to combat the inferno inside? A wildfire, carried by gusts. Burning skin inch by inch. 

A merciless match, consumed by red.

-A