Crimson: The color of the scarf I was wearing when I met you
Burgundy: the color of my lipstick in the eighth grade. You complimented it and then smeared it with your lips against mine.
Cherry: the color of our cheeks at the haunted hay ride you took me to. I didn't know which was scarier, the masks or how much I was falling in love with you.
Jasper: the color of my bedsheets that I refused to change for weeks. They smelled like you and I didn't want to lose that.
Maroon: The color of your Mustang that my dad disapproved of when we would speed through the lonely streets.
Rusty: the color of my skin bled after your funeral.
Scarlet: the color of my eyes after I cried for sixteen hours straight, and I swear to god I counted every last second.
