Red Dress, Blue Moon

Red dress, blue moon...
I was tying up the indigo,
counting coins to close the stall.
You asked, “Does the music finish?”

Blue dye lived beneath my fingernails.
The drummer tested one last rhythm.
You crossed between the lanterns,
red dress, flower in your hair.
“Why so serious?”
“Somebody has to care.”
You laughed, “Then dance before it kills you.”

One turn by the spice-stall tables—
my blue palm brushed your sleeve.
I saw the mark and lost the beat.
You looked down, then laughed, “Leave it.
Now the night has proof we met.”
The brass rose.
You took my hand again.

Red dress, blue moon—encore!
One blue handprint, then one dance more.
Brass in the air, heels on the stone—
I came here careful; I didn’t leave alone.

Next Friday, when the lamps came on,
you crossed the square again:
same red dress, the blue handprint
outlined with a thread of gold.
“My aunt refused to hide it.
Some accidents deserve a frame.”
You wrote your number in my ledger,
right below the closing sum.

By winter, my brother knew the sign.
He finished the final column
when your red appeared at nine.
The mint seller moved the chairs.
The market learned our crooked turning.
Every Friday found us there.

I thought love would arrive spotless,
no wrong step and no repair.
You wore my mistake in gold thread
and met me every Friday there.
Maybe joy is not perfection.
Maybe joy is coming back.

Red dress, blue moon—encore!
Gold round the handprint, one dance more.
Brass in the air, heels on the stone—
I came here careful; now our Friday has a song.

We close the stall together.
The last lamp leaves the square.
Red dress, blue moon—
one blue mark still shining there.