I trace the curve of your mouth, and I map out each and every
individual crack and crevice - because winter has never been kind
to you. Your mouth is thin, a small line upon your pretty
face, and you hardly ever smile. I ask you why.
"Because," you say, "I'm ugly when I
smile". "No, you're not!" I snap almost
instantly, and you laugh at my decisiveness. "How would you
know? You've never seen me smile". You look so
smug. "Because you can't ever be ugly, not to me.
It's impossible." Your mouth twitches, and suddenly you
smile and I want to cry because there's a definite curve to
your mouth, no matter how small and unsure. It's sort of
awkward, because your top lip has been eaten by your mouth whilst
your bottom lip remains very much in existence; fat and
prominent, it curves at the edges - cracks down the middle - and
I watch, fascinated, as vermilion swells to the surface. I kiss
the wound; smile against it. "See?" I taunt,
"still as pretty as ever". You throw your head back,
laughing, before smacking me upside the head - I somehow find it
very hard to care.