Under The Red Marquee
It was almost painful.
Knowing after this, I wouldn’t be able to take her home, tangle her in my sheets and kiss her slow. I couldn’t lie over her sleepy frame, press my lips to her shoulder, feel every breath, every stir, every motion - and still not be close enough.
I took a sip from my cup as she started explaining why so and so’s second album was ‘a little pretentious, but still worth the listen’ and how I would love whoever they were; and knowing her, was probably right.
But I couldn’t assemble the strength to focus on her conversation, only her lips. Those lips I used to devour.
A speck of red glow from the marquee hit a pocket of hair as she timidly slipped a few strands behind her ear.
God, she was beautiful.
The worst part of it all, she was so painfully unaware it only made her more endearing.
Especially when her hair was mussed up, clinging to sides of a pillow. All traces of lipstick, previously perfectly applied; destroyed, leaving reckless blots of what once was, donning a tired smile to match weary eyes.
Sometimes I feel as if I’m incapable of remembering her any other way. The fact that at one time, I was present for such an exquisite state - that I was the reason that version of her existed, even if only for a few nights, was reason enough to permanently cement a visual to memory.