Sandra did it again. Her lipstick stained my pillowcase for the third night this week.
Mom’s so gonna kill me with a sly grin.
The butterflies flutter like a wet blanket slapping the floor.
The redness of Sandra’s lips imprints a framed silhouette of her apple-shaped lips.
Mom’s so gonna kill me for this shit.
I wake up.
The stain is still there.
My lips are still here, waiting for me to kiss and smell,
Telling of wedding bells ringing to an unknown rhythm.
Mom’s so gonna fucking kill me.
I’m not supposed to have sex.
I’m not supposed to kiss.
If so, I gotta repent.
I’d repented more times than I’d had her on my mind.
Makeup, again? I’m gonna kick your fucking ass, dude.
Mom would call me dude when I was in trouble.
(© 2020 Andrew Cyr)