Jenna Calhoun
Lipstick

I found her 
flashing lacquer red lips
on the collar I hand pressed.

My fingers searched
for a silken dip 
along my forgotten bottom lip,

a dip that might leave such a mark.
I found 
roughened edges instead,

the kind that come from 
crumpling.
My lips 

can't remember 
your two,
or their bitter morning coffee 

after taste.  I can't stop 
brewing coffee
or pressing wrinkles 

from white shirt collars. 
Quietly, 
I forget about lips.

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