I bite my lips when I’m nervous or when I’m thinking.

 

Especially when I’m trying not to think about you, and how with your lips pressed against mine, you would mumble, “your lips are so soft,” a snug smile tugging at the corners of my mouth that was fighting for dominance with yours.

 

My lips are chapped from me trying to forget the way you would kiss my hand in the car without taking your eyes off the road - it was second nature at that point, just like driving was.

The red stain isn’t from the lipstick shade you decided was your favorite. Instead, a bloody lipgloss covers my mouth and it aches and throbs as I remember the last time you kissed me when it was out of love rather than lust.

 

In the moment it was just you and I, and I was almost convinced that we would make it despite the frequent snide comments and sub-tweeting our relationship had become. You kissed me with desperation between your lips, but when you sent me home crying you proved to me otherwise that you didn’t need me like I thought I needed you.

 

Now I’m alone, with cracks in my lips as my finger hovers over the search bar of Instagram. My heats sinks into my chest seeing you with just another version of me and hot tears form without warning. Maybe the anger will replace the sadness and I won’t reminisce on a time that was unhealthy looking back, but my judgement is clouded by nostalgia and a longing to be yours- be someone’s- and feel loved like you made me feel just

one

    more

         time.