His tongue in her mouth. Her smile in my face. I’ve seen her many times in person but I can’t help but stare at her photographs online; memorizing her features–her stupid potato nose with cheeks too round, comparing our lips–wondering what hers felt like to him. Was it comfortable or alien? Did he get an erection? How close were they? Did he put his strong hand on the small of her waist? How many people were watching? Was anyone I know there?
I know what his lips feel like; all soft and pillowy, and his tongue; silky and wet. He’s a great kisser and his breath always smells like junior high in a good way.
She has a lisp, one of those dumb mouths that always hang a little open, a thin upper lip, and two crowded teeth that stick out. I wonder if it makes her kiss funny. I hope it does.
He thinks she’s so cool; She’s an iTunes DJ, a rad dresser, she has a tiny waist, she goes out every night.
Im a homebody, my waist is long and thick and I sold all my clothes to Beacon’s closet so we could pay rent.
He’s been out with her more times than he’s been out with me. They’ve shut down clubs together, watched the sunrise, gone for HIV/STD testing together. We’ve never done any of those things. But oh, he is mine.
