Lips

“You told me I wasn’t over him
 because his name titles my writing.
 You told me I wasn’t over him because 
I avoid the places we used to smoke cigarettes late at night.
I avoid those places because I hate the ghost of myself 
I see lighting a cigarette with red lips and sad eyes.
 I am over him.
 I’m not over the person I used to be.
 Sometimes I feel that person beating around my ribcage, 
begging for one more drag of the life I used to live.
It has nothing to do with him.
 I write to pick up the pieces of myself that I exhaled 
into the lungs of a man who couldn’t breathe without
 a woman’s touch on his lips.”

One thought on “Lips

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