It’s February and my lips are cracking.
Whether it’s the cold drying them up
or the absence of your mouth on mine,
they beg for something soothing.
I lick them when I walk against the wind,
a temporary fix for a problem much greater.
It’s supposed to to be the month
of candy hearts and cherubs
but somehow the empty space on my lips
is the only thing that flashes in my mind,
neon lights over a motel: Vacancy.
And it isn’t until I’m digging through my car,
searching for comfort in the center console,
that it seems I’ve lost my Chapstick forever.
Everything is ephemeral once it touches my lips.