Red lipstick stained wine glass,
red wine to cushion the blow.
Condensation trickling, words spinning
through the hazy air.
"So what of past loves?"
The air splits in two,
lungs recoil.
I can suddenly see the moths
coming to the porch light.
How easily they're manipulated
into a false sense of warmth.
Flashbacks to red faces, black rimmed eyes.
Nights of loneliness
with someone wrapped around me.
Deep breath, push hair back.
Sip,
swallow.
"What of them?"