Precious Things

by Christos Polydorou

You rarely
asked for things. You never
for anything. But on

that first night in Mars.
Amidst the strumming
of guitars and legends
singing from the stars,
You said,

Promise it will always
be this red. Promise me
this will always be
the meaning of red.

Not blood shed.
But love lived.
Not passion spent.
But art distilled

in amber
for your ring’s finger.