Lipstick On Your Collar

Late again.
I pick holes in your story
like a moth.
I know you were with her.
Your fingers recoil guiltily
to your pockets.
I know they climbed
the ladders of her tights,
drawn to her pastel-pink flower
like bees. I can see
the crimson butterfly footprints
of her lipstick wandering
across your shirt,
and her mascara has left
faded bruises on your neck.
I see the memory of her
stretching out on our couch,
pressing her toes into the cushions.
She’s calling you with her eyes.
I throw a pillow at your face.
You can sleep with her again tonight.