My lips have some muscle memory. It isn’t exclusive to them, instead a vast array of hard

My lips have some muscle memory. It isn’t exclusive to them, instead a vast array of hard storage that runs down my jaw line and into my neck, down the rigorous musculature of my shoulders, and even a few fading tendrils that snake down my arms, a vague vestige of remembrance from the last time, and the time before that. 

It’s always an afterthought. It’s always just a moment of thought, a decision that’s never actually a decision, and then my lips are at your forehead, leaving their imprint there before I stand and get up off the bed. 

It feels like a signature. It acts like a mark. 

I wonder if you rub there, once I’m gone. I don’t even have to be gone, but in the bathroom, or the next room. I think you might. I think you couldn’t resist at least placing a finger there, because the more you think about it the more you can feel those lips there, and you need to rub that skin to either make sure it’sstill there, or at the very least get rid of that feeling of soft skin against you, because for some reason it’s a scratch you just can’t itch. 

The problem is, you can’t get rid of it. And even if you could, I’m just going to sign you again, and again. Your forehead will become a bathroom stall, covered in my graffiti.