Cold Lips

I can still taste the last cigarette from her thin, cold, wet lips. I can see her in her crumpled pile of clothes at the foot of the bed. I can smell her on me. It’s a mixture of laundry detergent and moisturizer. Her clothes are always freshly cleaned. The weight of her tits is still tangible in my palms. The crests of her hips still feel present against mine. She is still here in many ways, though she is hours away now and likely halfway home.