Red is my favorite color, red like your mother’s eyes after awhile of crying about how you don’t love her. 
She says “
I know I don’t deserve supervised sight of her, but each day becomes a blur without my daughter.” 
Fall is my favorite season, like falling to reasoning why you crashed from on high. 
She says “
Why is my life so uneven, and what have 
I done right but given you your life if after 
I led you on into that bar room?” “
Yes” is my favorite answer. 
I took a dancer home, she felt so alone. 
We stayed up all night in the kitchen doing my dishes, on and on until the dawn. 
She said “
I know it’s easy to have me, but 
I have seen some things that 
I can’t even tell to my family pictures,” and “
I’m full of fictions and ****ing addictions” and “
I miss my mother.” 
She’ll never know 
I could never forget her. 
If I could write her a letter, 
I’d try with every line to say “
She still remembers your touch. 
And I know that it’s not much, but you still haven’t lost