left hedge
Pink is softness with a pulse—
not fragile, just unguarded.
It’s the color of first crushes
that live in your chest for weeks,
of smiles you rehearse in the mirror
before seeing someone who doesn’t know
how much power they hold.
It smells like sugar and warm skin,
like bubblegum afternoons
and laughter that spills out too fast
because happiness forgot how to be quiet.
Pink is the light in a room at sunset,
when the world blushes
as if it’s been caught feeling something.
Pink is the inside of a cheek
bitten back from saying too much.
It’s notes folded into tiny squares,
hearts sketched in the margins of notebooks,
feelings disguised as jokes,
love hidden in “just kidding”
and “it’s not that deep.”
But pink isn’t always sweet.
Sometimes it’s raw.
The color of eyes after crying too long,
of lips pressed together
to keep from begging someone to stay.
It’s love that lingered
long after it was welcome,
tenderness that didn’t get returned.
Pink is embarrassment, too—
cheeks flushed when the truth slips out,
when vulnerability shows up uninvited.
It’s the moment you realize
you cared more than you meant to,
and there’s no way to undo it.
Still, pink remains.
Soft, stubborn, brave.
It’s the choice to feel anyway,
to love loudly in a quiet world,
to stay open even after learning
how easily hearts can bruise.
Pink is becoming—
learning that softness is not weakness,
that tenderness is a strength
the world can’t steal.
It’s the courage to be seen,
and the hope that one day,
someone will see it
and stay.
urban flicker