I think we can safely deduce that this is a spacio-temporal issue and not a weird skin condition.

Red’s letters she keeps in her own body, curled beneath her tongue like coins, printed in her fingers’ tips, between the lines of her palms.

You are yourself, and so remain, as I remain.

Her pen had a heart inside, and the nib was a wound in a vein. She stained the page with herself.

I want to meet you in every place I have loved.

Like your victory, love spreads back through time. It claims our earliest association, our battles and losses. Assassinations become assignations.

Love is what we have, against time and death, against all the powers ranged to crush us down.

Sometimes when you write, you say things I stopped myself from saying.

Start a stone rolling, so in three centuries you’ll have an avalanche.

Red, when I think of this seed in your mouth I imagine having placed it there myself, my fingers on your lips.