Lips

Sandwich days. Wednesdays. Smiles and lasting brush strokes. I'm no longer the boy you fell for, so stop falling.

Five weeks since I inhaled. Since the one with the broad hands and the need to climb things. The sleepy mountains tolerated us like flies on beasts. They had found the water first.

In the woods he pressed me down, moss and fern. He said, "You can lick your lips all you want, they're not going anywhere," smiling like he knew what I'd moan. I touched my lips to make sure they were there, to see what he meant.

He was fine. But he had a peculiar way of rolling his eyes sideways so he always seemed on the brink of leaving.