When I see red, I think of blood from a past I wish to never remember.
When I taste red, it's a crunchy apple that was ripe for the picking.
Smelling red is only when I'm at the park in autumn when the leaves are falling.
The touch of red is smooth and soft, though it may have thorns, a rose always brighten mine day.
Hearing red is always loud and proud, I know, as I place my hand over my heart.