Blush Red

At times, during late hours of the night, I feel strength slipping out of my fingers, my palms getting cold and numb, colours fading out of them. As the red spots get lighter in shade and slowly disappear into nothingness, leaving my palms white, spotless, colourless, I realize why red has always been my favourite colour. Isn't it because it always manages to sneak away for a while, every some time, when high tide seems to hit the shore? Or is it because I know it isn't robust enough to hold my baggage, one I've been carrying on my palms since forever? It could be either. What's strange though is the fact that it chooses to return, every time. And the swiftness with which that happens makes me wonder if it really ever dissipated in the first place. Because when it's back with me on my palms, I see it glowing in its red, the colour brighter than ever, as if it's finally here with a rejuvenated spirit to take me as I am and of course, with my baggage. Happily ever after, huh? But this story is a bit too seamless. And so, here's the twist. Just when I touch the smoothness of my palm and press it a little tighter, happy to have my natural blush back, it recedes, leaving me smouldered in the whiteness of what remains, the spotless, pristine palms of mine, fueled with a tinge of pain that slinks through the hangnails and crawls all its way up to the wrist, making both my palms go numb again, until the high tide washes over me and the red reappears, blushing in all its glow with a rekindled spirit.