Lipstick

A Story by Amyy

A culmination of loss

I hate how you used to spend every morning deciding on the colour of your lips.

Like the colour even mattered when you had not seen them as I had.

But I know I only hate it now the mornings are empty. It's another reminder of time I once again failed to appreciate. Failed to remember in enough detail to relive those coffee stained bedside tables and the lingering smell of last night's cigarettes still haunting the room. I regret not being able to recall the feeling of you opening the windows and breathing "that's better" into the cold morning air. Or the soft sheets under my hands as I searched for your warmth next to me. My sheets aren't so soft, or as white and crisp. Mine do harbor that cigarette smoke though...

and very, very occasionally I will still find smudges of the many colours of your lips on the worn cotton edges of my pillow cases.