Red: a poem

Staff Writer
Our first red
Was the call
             In an aging phone booth
To you, a stranger — falling fast
Our second red
Was the dusting blush
             In a quiet room
For you, a friend — enthralled at last
Our third red
Was the cup
             In a new café
For us, a pair — healing cast
Our fourth red
Was the ring
             In autumn leaves
For us, a marriage — meant to last
Our fifth red
Was the blood
             In your fanned out hair
             As you lay motionless
                          Rosy cheeks and ruby lips
                          Draining out
                          All our reds