Tasting you

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.