by Sara Grant
Parted lips, party lips.
Red wine sips, your lips
Rest
Full-bodied,
Pressed up
Against a plastic cup.
This housewarming
Warms you up.
I shoot a kiss
Towards your lips.
I almost miss.
Vodka, gin, and cider lips.
Eleven numbers
And one week later
We meet again, Lips.
First date quips
Form at your lips
And wild whispers linger.
In time
You’re mine, Lips.
Plump and warm
And witty
And with me, every day.
But wait…
What’s this?
Your mouthy monologues
Pop up, impromptu.
Slicks of saliva
Seep out
And scold me
Still, I stick with it,
We stick together.
Six months in,
Your lips bump mine,
Briefly,
In the hallway and out of habit.
An April evening,
In the bar,
You sit me down.
Declare last orders.
Through chewed up lips,
You recite your reasons.
Ready salted tears
Drip onto dry lips.
And right on cue
My wobbling lip
Gives way.
It’s closing time now anyway.
Sara Grant | Instagram: @Lustforwords
Sara Grant is a content writer by day and a flash fiction writer by night.