Lipstick-Stained Cigarette Butts and Cherry Cola

I see your lips everywhere 
but where they should be. 

Tie the stem in a knot 
then pass it to me for practice. 
Just for practice. 

You place the cigarette in my mouth 
and I hold it longer than I should, 
imagining it will stain my lips.  

Bittersweet summer—
sleepovers and sticky bodies. 

It’s okay, the way we hold each other,
because that’s what friends do—
even when the heat is suffocating. 

Am I suffocating? 
I know with the ease that you 
put your hand on my waist 
that you don’t think so, 
that you don’t think 
about it at all,
that you don’t 
have a single thought when you play with my hair when it’s out of its tie, that you don’t
think about how it feels when you sip from my cup. That you don’t think about me— 

Not like that. 
That’s how I know. 

I pull my sticky self away from you.
If asked, I’d blame the setting sun for my sudden chill.