What did her mouth taste like?
Did she taste like me?
Was her breath sugary and hot,
her sighs cotton candy and sweet tea,
or did the guilt turn them sour
her spit bitter and spoilt?
Or had her tongue dragged you in
and swallowed you whole
allowing any of trace of me to be forgotten,
the guilt but an irritating side effect
of one ******* magical poison?

What did her lips feel like?
Did they feel like mine?
Were they firm,
but soft,
sedated,
but awake,
exciting and strange,
but completely home,
moving in shapes you didn't know how to fit inside,
talking in tongues you couldn't quite understand?
I bet you tried.
I bet you thought she was calling you all the things nobody had ever called you before -
but can't you remember all the times I called you perfect?
Usually when you were half asleep or I was half drunk,
me watching your face soften from mountain to sea with each passing breath,
you telling me to shush because it was only the drink talking.
But you were wrong;
I meant it.
Every dumb sappy thing I ever said,
I meant it.

Where did your hands go?
Did they slide inside her tshirt
and wrap around her waist,
holding on so tightly that your skin seemed to melt into hers,
like they used to do to me?
I still have the burn marks to prove it,
thick,
hot welts on my hips,
ugly and the most beautiful purple flowers I've ever seen.
Or were your hands wary and unsure of themselves,
shaken by such sudden starlight,
hanging awkwardly around your sides,
reaching out
and falling back
again
and again
and again?

Maybe if I'd have pressed my mouth against yours that bit harder,
slid my tongue along yours that little bit quicker,
eaten sugar lumps before we kissed,
you'd still be here.
Kiss me again
and I'm not letting go.
Kiss me again
and I'll choke you with honey.
Kiss me again,
kiss me again,
kiss me again.