Wriggling with joy, pink bursts forward from white silk tainted with red. She remains pure, an unsullied reminder of furtive moments spent nestled in a painter’s warm palate. Delicious, sumptuous, yes.
What sensuous joy and what pleasure she trails in her wake. Her dreams whisper softly, like long-remembered fingers on skin, like children traipsing thoughtless through woods.
Pink tastes like spring and smells like laughter. Pink knows no shame. Primary colors hide in tubes and squares and corners. Pink rules them all, a monarch atop her throne.
Use me, she dares. Find your brush, find your inspiration. Find me and use me. I am here. Use. Me.