She carried around a lip gloss with her, reminiscent of jam and the fruits I used to eat in my youth. It appears darker in the bottle than on her lips, yet she says it is perfect the way it is. The glimmer of the sun on her lower lip makes me want to spill my secrets, to let her know what made me think of her on my way over, just to hold a bit of her attention.
She is like this thing on the cusp of my social reality. A sun, her gravitational pull dragging me in while I stumble closer. I wait on the edge of my seat, only to be greeted with a sting stemming from an offhand comment. I retract, like the strings tugging at my heart– but I must be imagining it. I cannot be hurt by something she does not acknowledge. For those seconds I was out of her orbit, about to be slingshotted back.
And I smile at those berry lips again as she brushes on a fresh coat with the doe foot applicator. Cling to those droplets of attention, rationing them as she turns away, because without them I would wilt.
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