Pink and red

Your lips are pink. I can’t tell if it’s lipstick or love. 
I am frowning, halted, playing hopscotch with my breath, 
                                 
                                        but you are swathed in that pink dress, 
                                        as guileless as the summer I tried to paint as stifling.  

To falter is to wait to be sophisticated, 
                                       
                                        to wait until a pink heart turns red.