Where I Left My Lipstick — Still Warm, Still Tasting of Cherry and Smoke

Your mouth said little,
but your hands confessed.
I didn’t beg,
I offered.
My knees hit the floor faster than your name did my memory.
And there, in the hush between your sighs,
I wrote myself all over your skin—
hot, flushed,
a shade of worship.

Your strength was velvet,
hard against my softness.
You didn’t ask if I wanted more,
you just were more.
Every inch of you — a sermon.
My tongue, the preacher.
Your cock, the altar.
I knelt.
Devout. Dripping.

Now, every time I bite my lip,
I taste the room, the sweat, the sound.
I left my lipstick where it still stings.
Where it still echoes.
You don’t call,
but your silence hums in my bones.
And god, if I could do it again,
I’d crawl back in that room
and let you ruin me
better.