Lovesick

I knock on your door today, to try to talk to you,
to try to make you love me again…and when

you answer, your cherry red lips open in a
perfect O. Silence is our third wheel and in

desperation, I whisper, “Please let me have one
more day to make everything better. Can’t we try

again?” And you shake your head, lips knitted
shut into a perfectly kissable lump on your

face, and then you rip open the stitches and
speak with wintry breath. “Leave. Please,

leave, Lyssie. I can’t stand this.” She made a
mistake: she used the nickname I’d never

thought I’d hear again – my real name is
Alyssa but maybe you forgot that.

I can see love bleeding through your
thick, thick skin, and smell lust leaking from

the corners you insist on keeping hidden.
I lean over

and kiss you.