She wasn't meant to be touched, atleast not by you. She was one of those paintings on the walls of those museums that make you pay your way in. You would stand in line and wait to see her, she was beautiful, people would take pictures and stare at her for hours even. She wasn't to be touched by your hands. There were men who craved her attention, men who reveled in the idea of taking her, she wasn't looking to be taken though, she was looking for a home.

It was a hidden treasure, a light on my dark days. Your lipstick stained coffee mug in my box of things. For months after you left I drank from that mug, every morning. An abstract of pinks and reds stained on the brim. It felt like you were still there, tasting your lips before leaving for work.