His lips were chapped that day. The bitter cold struck our town in the night, while all eyes stared upon eyelids, and minds raced with illusions of love. His lips were chapped and his nose was reddened, kissed by frost. These sheets he had laid upon, warm from his touch, had now turned cold like his still body that now lay beneath dark soil. His beautiful body now lay to rot below contaminated earth, and those chapped lips. These sheets…why did they have to be so cold, like a physical manifestation of my loss. A shadow of my former self lingered only in the memories of my beloved. His lips were chapped that night, he stood over the bed with disapproval in his stance. He didn’t like my dress that night. I needed to respect myself more he told me, but I wanted to be beautiful I told him. With every word he would lick those chapped lips. Every glance at him, ignited a fume of anger within me. His chapped lips. Nothing made sense without them. An argument. His hands waved wildly as his voice rose. I remember my own voice tearing at his, but my face and body remained still. Our frustration grew, he wanted me to react, he wanted emotion I refused to give. He didn’t like my dress. He bit his lip in a fit of anger. Chapped lips. The chapped flesh broke on impact. Crimson blood oozed from his chapped lips. Chapped. Those chapped lips pouted and he spoke his last words, “I’m leaving you.”
As I laid next to him his pulse slowed. His face was contorted in pain and shock. My hand brushed that beautiful face. We lay in a pool of Crimson. So beautiful. As the light in his eyes died and his pulse faded to nothing, I kissed those chapped lips one last night.
He has chapped lips, and I love them.
And he loves me.