I've heard a lot of talk about love
And about the colour of love;
I don't think that it's the same for all of us
I mean, of course, how can the colour of love be the same?
As much as this is overused,
The colour of my love is red
Because the blood in my veins that sings of love
Is red
And my love, my love for you,
Is born out of the same blood that carries my words, my fantasies, my desires
My blood, that cries out of wounds given by your lips
The same blood that rushes out to heal your scars
My blood, that weeps of promises and passion the minute yours does
That stings of love and revolution, in ways my body cannot begin to comprehend
From my blood comes my love for you and
Who am I to say no to something like that?
I am nobody to refuse the demands of primordial gods
This love, my love, could make the sun, the moon and all of the stars eclipse
It could make it rain, of all the love in the universe
My love could fix the faults of the earth, all of them, one by one
This love is enough, a thousand times enough
For me and for you.
The colour of my love is not happy, like yellow;
It's a chaotic rage
It isn't peaceful, like blue;
It is the colour of poetry, beautiful and terrifying
The colour of my love is not tender, like pink;
It is a red-hot inferno, blazing and burning in its wake
It is not sophisticated either, like purple;
It is messy, it is raw, and it is honest
The colour of my love is a difficult stain to get rid of
You would have to wash my heart clean,
Overwrite it with something other than love
You'd have to kill me,
Because otherwise, it will keep bleeding
Until it dies, it will continue to drain love
Let the blood on the dagger dry away;
Don't wash it
But know that
Blood is not easy to clean;
It will always leave traces.