Do his thumbs taste like honeysuckles? Is it the little way he squeezes your thighs after a long night of lust war paint on your tongue? Or was it a smokey quartz lies that kept you in close when I should have departed? Did my lips just echo of please stay here baby? Chaotic kisses left on the pale blouse I wore when you told me to stay. There’s a dusk glitch over our town, but it glowed when your lips became a crescent moon.