Lipstick
With others, it was different:
colorless passion; sleep; shower.
Never before these tangled sheets,
this white heat or obsession.
In the morning, you scrub away
at crimson smears on your neck,
marveling at the paleness of your skin
beneath her color.
She kisses your mirror, “So
you’ll remember last night.”
As if you could forget.
Chantarelle's Notebook 