For the main event, she throws her neck over the chair-back
and I go through the motions already made in a life where
we still kiss with our mouths open at 50.
I rub the tube down her lip like a piercer’s needle without his touch and murder her in my head:
her forehead is not so tall, bone-drop over an eye to pinch the corner shut.
I have rolled her in sharp color like film reel but I would be
hard-pressed to see it
(my hood-eye-girl my wink-and-blink love my—)!
Her top lip stabs the pad of my thumb and I add another tally to my ledger
(my lipstick-crush my one-bite-one-shot-best-you-one-handed-).
good? she says and I make a face and dive to the bottom of her closet,
searching for a sweater I left there in hopes she would sleep in it, but find A
pair of tweezers instead.
sit still, I call. Just as well.
K.S. (they/them) is an aspiring writer from South Asia, interested in the elastic limits of form and subject Their work has appeared in Expat Press, Sledgehammer Lit, Inksounds, The Daily Drunk, and Warning Lines among others.