You taste like blistex and burnt sugar. It was an obsession with you had with your lips constantly needing application and examination, “I want them soft and smooth,” you said, “I want to loose the rough crevices. They’re chapped too. Don’t they look chapped to you?” I said you looked beautiful, because you did, you always do even if your teeth snarled and bit the lips raw I still admired the landscape of bumpy blistered skin. I would kiss and kiss those lips til the taste of blistex and burnt sugar melted away into nothing but a metallic taste of our blended saliva. There was always the taste of our breath too, hot breath that hollowed my throat and massaged my lungs.
I could not only taste you but breathe you as well, we could share breaths, taking it in turns to exhale and inhale. You kept me emerged, long after you had brushed your hair, showered and left for work with your handbag strap thrumming against your shoulder. I was left, still trying to suck the breath and scent of you out of the pillow. I lay in bed not wanting to leave, trying to be comforted by the few strands of hair you left on the red-white-blue pillow.
Trying to feel independant and not lonely I write notes in my diary and I try to make plans. Each plan revolves around what you would like to do, where you’d like to go out for dinner which new arthouse movie you would want to see. I call my mother from the comfort of the doona’s nurture and your stale lingering breath. My face is wedged firmly on your pillow as my mother chatters endlessly about whats-his-name down the street. But the distraction doesn’t last, it always goes back to you, blistex and burnt sugar, and I wonder without looking at the clock, when you’ll come home.