A pair of scissors
resting in my palm.
This is a game
of chance.
Because there’s a moment
where I consider,
painting them red.
But I’d soon run out of paint,
so I don’t.
She was asking for it
though I don’t owe her anything.
How bold she was,
standing there with
my face as hers,
dressed in blue.
If this is what dreams are made of,
I must be made of something else.