We were red and blue in the rain, numb to the pounding of the June-gloom skies on our skin and deaf to the demands of the misguided heroes behind us.

He turned and held me, hard enough for our rib cages to collide and our hearts to match one another beat for beat.  We’d come to the end of our beautiful mistakes, and for a moment it seemed as though we stood in solitude against the cries of the forty sirens on a starless night.

With his back to a hundred turrets, he let his lips find their way home to mine, sparking warmth between us among the heatless shadows of the dark Virginia pines. A sniper’s bullet cut through the rain and his hands went loose.

He pulled away briefly, and hid a grimace behind a subtle half-smile, then leaned into me to hold his ground. A second shot rang out against the rain and brought him to the pavement.

We fell, hands locked, faces somber-calm, close, and our kisses were slow and deathless, until the only thing left for me to taste was the lingering remnants of his love in blood and salt.

The rain made our colors run; red, night, and blue.