I stand and count the lines on your lips
one for every day that I've known you
in my pocket I fold the tissue
that you gave me once to mop up my tears
one, twice
three times  no more
I bite my lip; no lines
and hand you the tissue
"It was supposed to be a swan" I say
you laugh
I laugh
and I kiss the top of your head
"It looks more like a flower" so you put it in
your hair
It begins to rain and the tissue-swan-tissue-flower
deteriorates
I begin to cry
so you hand me a clean tissue to mop up my tears