Son: Chapstick, 7-21-08

We are at some bus station in the middle of Ohio, and you are luxuriously applying chapstick to your lips -- they are pale red, the color of dawn. Almost a peach.

Now, you are lighting a cigarette placed where the greasy stick was just moments before. Small, pale hands control your movements. Flicking on the lighter, fire delights your face. It's hot out, and the meager flame reflects off 100s of small droplets of sweat that are rolling down your cheek. Your angular, Roman-esque features provide a water park of rivulets until they meet at your jaw bone, where they disappear for a moment and reappear at your neck.

Breathe in, breathe out, blow smoke.

The girl with you makes some comment and she laughs at her own cleverness. You are broken away from the privacy of lighting and puffing the first puff, and your downy blue eyes refocus on her.

You smile, those chapstick flavored and nicotine stained lips curl in the form of a half-smile. You are turned away, so I can't see your full expression, but I know you are conscious of me, and can still feel my presence inside of you.

I left it there. You had tried to refuse but couldn't. A dirty, quick fuck in the bathroom stall, your teeth biting deep into the handle of your bag strap to keep you from screaming.

You had made a half-assed attempt at a few protests, but the time together was short and the need was so great that it left little ability to do anything but pull our pants down and bend you over.

I owned you for a minute, and that is still my sweat mixed with yours dripping down your back.

Those perfect lips, that fair, hairless facial skin that I, have no doubt, has been worshipped by the dumpy, hippy girl you are with was contorted and mangled just moments before for me.

And I know you are feeling my eyes burn into your back.

We have hours to go, and many more bus stops together.