An intimate mark that often left cranberry-coloured lipstick on the corner of his smile. My lips hadn't been near him since he’d left the country to fight in a war. A letter had arrived through my door written by him stating how he wasn't going to make it. Love never left for him and even if he was considered a memory he remained the only person I could love constantly. So in such a lonely state why did my lips tingle again? If my one true love was truly dead how could I feel this nearly forgotten power in me? All I could worry about was that he no longer was just a loving memory and that he somehow found a way out. He had kissed another before and I had him think about that consequence when I drove him to the woods. When I punctured him countless times. When I left him there... Something staged so beautifully must always have a play. Maybe I wasn't the only one pretending.