I want to tell her that her lipstick is red.
I want to tell her that her lipstick is red
and that her lipstick is looking at me.
I want to tell her that I believe her lips are that red
underneath the lipstick the lipstick
and when she breathes out
it almost sits on my collarbone.
She talks about a house she used to share
with her girlfriend.
I want to tell her that her lipstick is red
and that I am glad she had at one point
at least
a girlfriend.
She talks about the creative process
and I imagine her covered in paint
and nothing else
just animal, animal red
and I don’t want to touch her
just to watch her dance in acrylic
painting her heartbeat onto the outside of her body.
Her friend asks her a question and she puts wine to her lips.
I think of red, and red,
and she puts the wineglass down too fast
and I want to ask her how she holds
her girlfriend but she is talking
about a husband,
who she holds, I imagine,
and children,
and I hear what she meant by girlfriend,
and I fight the urge to demand
that she gives me her lipstick
so I can eat it
all-in-one-go
say that was why I was looking
cheeks red now
red red
say
that was all I was hungry for