I never knew of a good way
to describe the feeling of lips pressed together.
It doesn’t feel like smacking your own lips.
It definitely doesn’t feel like your own hand.
I wanted to form lilac paint so badly with my red lips,
but I was missing a pair of blue.
When you grabbed my face and kissed me
at the empty gas station
on that breezy end of July,
budding August night,
the car filling up
and the luminescent lights bleak
the windows cracked open,
my left leg tucked in
my hair tucked behind my left ear,
you tasted like water.
You handed the gas attendant a fifty
Said, “Keep the change.”
Here I was,
the gas attendant assuming I was the girlfriend,
you thinking I’m just having fun,
and me figuring out where on the warm asphalt
did I drop a piece of myself
the moment I climbed into your car.