Lipstick Mark
I often would wake up in the morning and see the remains of your presence scattered in the kitchen. The absence of your purse and coat, the lingering smell of your vanilla-perfume in the air and a coffee cup forgotten on the windowsill with a dried lipstick mark on the edge. The same lipstick smeared on my cheeks from a rushed goodbye-kiss. I can’t pinpoint the moment when your lipstick became my lipstick. When the lingering vanilla-perfume turned into my rose perfume. When was the last time you kissed me on the cheek? I wish I would know the exact week day or hour so I would know when my childhood slipped through my fingers like sand in an hourglass.
That is why, as I pour my heart out to him I feel my eyebrows furrow out of frustration for not finding the right words to explain all the love I have. When I look up to the ceiling to sort my thoughts, I realise I am wearing your face. How many times have I watched you draw these lines on your face while emotions spill out of you. The desperation of our faces mirror each other. As I am standing here seeking the right phrase, I realise there is a piece of you in the way I love. So much care and affection for loved ones that I can’t grasp it, it escapes out of me. My heart fails to keep its heaviness hidden away. That is why as I stand here, my mouth tightens in a thin line and my eyebrows come together emphasising the desperation in my eyes to make everything right for the person in front of me. I know I am wearing your reflection. I wonder if you once saw that face on your mother as she did on hers. I wonder if she also left lipstick marks on coffee cups.
Writer: Elisha Janda