Comfort is a fiery red.
The red that flows into your livin room an a winter night,
the red my mother wears on her tender lips.
The hugs my father gives me,
just because.
He summer breze, whose breath carries the red roses' fumes onto the earth.

Comfort is my Grandmothers hot rice pudding,
steaming over my lips.
The white cotton candy clouds watching over us.
Your favorite song being played on the radio.
The dancing music notes,
confoining you with retrospections.
But most of all,
comfort is love,
love is your dogs tongue across your face,
gross,
yet, contentiment - ease.
Comfort is a fiery red.