I pick at my lips to pick something to start peeling away the feeling of you from my skin,

Scrubbing the taste of you off of my tongue, the smell of you from my nose like coffee beans at the perfume counter

I close my eyes tight and rub, as if I can force the stars beneath my eyelids to stop masquerading as you

I wrap myself in blankets like I used to be wrapped in you, trapped in you, like my own rose tinted romance

I still feel you, lingering, like a kiss on a first date, pulling me close with broken promises and one last request for attention, for sympathy from me. For me.

Because what else would he need sympathy for, if not me?

I empty myself like a bottle of old red wine, bitter and forgotten. Pour myself into everyone except myself, because it’s easier to let someone other than me have the first sip. Let someone else judge the moment I touch their lips, the taste of me shocking yet fleeting.