Lipstick

The lipstick she wears is sweet. It reminds me of other women; women who made my heart soar.

Up close and inside her she may be the finest of women. Her body moves in wonderful ways. And up close, up that close, her features disappear into indistinct forms and she can become another woman in another place.

Time after time I’ve been with her now. Time after time she remains indistinct; a blur. I don’t really know who she is and I don’t really want to know. And in moments where I don’t think too much about it I begin to remember what it was like to feel.

I don’t love her.

Is it bad that I don’t love her?

Maybe it is. Maybe because every night spent with her implies that I do I should simply stop.

We talk about other things. Not love. Not sex. Not the future. Then the passion comes and talking stops. In the morning she showers, dresses and goes to work. When she’s gone I shower.

Sometimes I feel a wave of nausea. I don’t know why. I’ve been with women far less attractive.

It doesn’t last.

The need outweighs the regret.

Sometimes I catch a look in her eyes that makes me feel like I’m being the biggest shit on earth.

I tell myself that this’ll be the last time. The last time.

And even so. Just because you think you see something in someone's eyes doesn't mean it's there.

It probably won’t end until I’m on that plane and gone.

The grim winter skies makes it hard to say no to company.

And so what if I can’t love her.

So what?

She probably couldn't love me either.

Not really.

And this really shouldn't matter.

Maybe it’s enough that in the sweet scent of her lipstick there's something which, for a while, makes me remember what I once lived for.

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