Scarred lips and crimson eyes, such a revolting shade of blue, stood at the altar. Wavy hair hiding wrinkled skin, covering beauty marks that were meant to be ink patterns, sketches of stories and adventures never to be told, a whole life lived in denial replacing a love

that never could have been. In a few minutes chapped lips would press against his, soft, passionate, everything he’d dreamed they would be yet so cold in comparison. The sweet taste of the fruit punch would be bitter on his tongue, the lasting flavour a stain on sour taste buds,