Hey, you pink, pink, pink woman, bubble gum delight a woman, I wish you were here, now, cotton candy on a stick before my eyes, dangling about my hands. To plow into you, this candy tuft of cotton candy, would kill me, the sugar overdose, I would die on this wood chair, seated before my monitor, my cold dirty monitor, I would die of pinkness in this chair.

Only you, pink, pink, pink.

Maybe it’s the color that you hate, but it’s the color you become, pink. Pink that you are this moment, pink. Maybe it’s the metaphors you hate, the intimation of what you never were, that you are pink, that you are color without hue.

And what is pink but that which you can’t hold in your hands?

The softness of your lips (rubber bands), twitching, moist, and expectant; you are ready to speak, engorged, you are ready to weep, enraged, your lips trembling, you remember anything, everything, wanting to be held but not wanting to be touched, you are pink, sweet, sweet, and pink, pink, pink.
Maybe I’m guilty too; your thighs are mighty, pink, suffocating me in pink, smooth, even pink, good lord you are the deepest carnation pink, your skin is hot and cold, pale pink become rosy pink, pink swirls and circles of pink, hot pink on cold, off red off white, pinks on pinks, color of skin, the five different pinks of true.

NOT THE COLOR, BUT THE FLUSH BEHIND THE HUE, you are the flash that drives the carnation, you are the strong woman who stands bashing green grass, crashing blue sky, you stand mighty, haughty against the rainbow, you are more than color, you more than woman, you are pink, pink and I can’t clutch you, I’m afraid to crush you, I may never touch you, crying, dying in this chair: sweet no flower, sweet no candy, sweet no bubble, sweet no flesh, pink, pink,

pink woman, pink, pink, pink,

I sleep tonight and die of pink.