chapstick

the other day, i emptied my purse and went to throw away an old chapstick.

i hesitated. hand over the trash can. because that chapstick had touched

my lips. and my lips had touched yours.

though, it was more than just touch. my lips had sought yours: desperate and ripe,

full of want. they had caressed the skin juncture between the valleys

of your clavicle and the tip of your shoulder. my lips had carved

through the shell of your ear. they had brined with the ocean

spray and the bitterness of your toothpaste to create a cocktail

on my tongue. they parted to your lips: parried with your tongue. my lips

created an echo ricocheting down the well of your belly button; they froze

at the peaks of your breasts. they grazed in the open plains

of your thighs, hair like sweet grass, that swayed in the breeze of my stuttering breath.

my lips had touched yours. and touched the chapstick —

hanging, suspended over the trash can.