He used to kiss me with his eyes closed. I never found out why.
I could never make my mind up. Sometimes I thought it was because he was savouring the moment. He closed his eyes because he wanted it to last forever. But part of me knew it was naive. Part of me always suspected he was thinking of someone else.
He was always so distant. Always thinking. Always some place else. But he loved me, I think. In his way. He just never took the time to tell me.
And now he won't. Ever.
I loved everything about him, but I loved his smile the most. His smile was fleeting, his smile was shy. The ghost of a smile would occasionally trace his lips when we were out together, but it was when we were alone - when he was truly content with the world - that I would occasionally see it. It was the most rare, and yet the most genuine of all the smiles I've ever seen. I would treasure it's every appearance as one might treasure the sighting of a comet.
But comets are predictable. Comets always come back.
He's not coming back.
I remember I once bought the most expensive lipstick I could find. His last girlfriend had worn a lot of make up, and although it had never been my thing I thought that I'd make the effort. He used to complain that it was a pain to wash off, that it stained his collar - but he liked it really.
I would have given anything to see his smile one more time.
I plant a kiss on the corner of his mouth, still curved up at the edges in a false smile. An imprint of my lips remains where I left it, and I don't wipe it off. He wouldn't want that. A tear rolls down, but he's not there to wipe it off. He always said I cried too much.
"I love you." I whisper. And then I pull the knife out of his heart.