Fuchsia Stain

The phone buzzed, that familiar, cruel way.

Ten years. Her face, a younger day.

Crammed in that booth, too close, too hot,

we made a pact, which I forgot.

Her lipstick, cheap and fuchsia bright,

a messy smear, a garish sight.

Right on her tooth, a purple smudge,

a detail now I can't dislodge.

My arm around her, stiff and forced,

a future we'd both been divorced

from, silently. I remember the smell

of stale arcade, and wishing her well

but also wishing she'd let go.

Her laugh, so loud. My awkward, slow

smile in the flash. I swiped right past,

a memory built to never last.

But the stain, it clung. That tacky shade.

And all the years, a choice I made.