drips from freckled lips
and spills over her neck, her cup runneth over
a chalice, some antique crystal vase her mother gave her.
Dribbles like nostalgia rising in a marine layer;
a misty fog so thick it could suffocate a person.
So heavy it could crush a pair of lungs in a diseased wave
curling under, disintegrating the surface and ground.
Drips like the faucet when it’s not turned all the way
to the left.
echoes through the place
where her brain should be telling her to hold tight and that it isn’t his so don’t let him think that he can just have it.
But it seems he took it out of her mouth when his lips
were cradling hers ever strongly, an expert pit pocketer,
a crook. He took it like a knock-off souvenir being peddled under the Eiffel tower at night, she was too distracted by its flashing lights and all they had promised her they
runs over her face
like the bitter wine that overflowed her chalice once.
Just now she finds out it’s a fraud, not an antique, some cheap consignment store found plastic that cracks when dropped and shatters when it’s dropped like she was, but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed with some tape, some tequila, a lime and salt for the wound that is now sticky and oozing like his hold on her, his ghost’s grip. It makes chains look like glass thread, turns what’s as strong as his lips into something weak like her mind.