This is a magenta confession—
a storm caught mid-blush,
its mouth rehearsing unfinished alphabets.

Eyes shaped like questions,
half doors, half traps for memory.
Black lines hum in octaves of maybe.

Hypothesis: the face remembers music.
Counter-hypothesis: the music drew the face.

The pink horizon folds inward,
cheeks speak in ultraviolet riddles.

Laughter bends into a crescent scar.
Language liquefies,
becomes lipstick,
becomes myth.

DADA nods from the mirror:
“Color is a verb,
and you—
you are its sentence.”