Her name was Scarlett. Red like the bleed of your heart. For him.
Sister to Matisse. Or the other half of a name. That never was. And never will be.
Drops of red. On snow as white. Guiding your path home. To him. To hope. To love.
But she will never be.
For you have closed that door.
Bar a miracle.
But if so. Then Scarlett it is. To remind you. In honor. Of your blood red heart. Of passion. Of love.
Of the hope that they once had for you.
But you know otherwise. This is your path.
What will be will be.
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