It wasn’t his eyes that lured me in, as they did the other girls. It wasn’t his muscles poking through the t-shirt or that red carpet smile. No, it was something much better than all of that: his lips.
His lips were caressing the hamburger bun as the grease fell from the burger and laid gently on the bottom one. Shiny. Plump. Perfect. Two gorgeous halves that fit comfortably atop each other. It was his hands that placed his lunch back on the tray. But it was his lips that formed those words: Hey, Chloe. Are you busy this weekend?
Not long after that, I had become acquainted with his giant hand, which mine fit perfectly in. I had felt the beats of his heart with my very ear. I had seen the great muscles upon his chest. But none of that was important. It was his lips. The ones that pressed against mine until the bright sun slipped through the cracks of the blinds the next morning. The ones that were just mine. The ones that “I love you” rolled off of in a hushed whisper.
But soon that hand covered someone else’s. Someone else had heard the drumrolls of his heart. Seen the strength in his chest. The love in his dark eyes. Felt the mark of those lips on their own. They heard the phrase I once knew so well. I heard his lips, pressed on hers, tell me everything I needed to know: His lying lips were never mine. They never were.