Still Life (Poetry)

I found a lip print on a glass,
identified its barcode blush —
a moisture-rich and satin-smooth
fading smile of Strawberry Crush.

The washer-up had rinsed and wiped
and put away your mouth’s pink stain,
unnoticed on the kitchen shelf
until we opened wine again.

Now you’re not here to share our toast —
it’s quite a while since you’ve been gone —
I miss your pouting Perfect Peach
or glossy Touch of Cinnamon.

I yearn for Yardley’s dewy rose;
Max Factor reds and tangerines
or Coty’s subtle apricots —
those fruits and flowers colourings.

The glass is cold, I kiss its rim,
lip to ghostly lip soft-pressed
while purple grape flows inbetween
and drowns the ache that fills my chest.