Chapped Lips

Early morning of 3am, my pointer finger continually traces around the outline of my chapped, broken, dry lips, miserably torn from not the cold; but from past and present history that has now been stained by vodka, scented from passive cigarette smoke and thoughtless acts of numerous French kissing.
The haunted thought of this has turned into a stinging heartache that has been deeply embedded into my skin while I wince as you watch them crack into a bleeded smile, with the sense of your satisfaction these chapped, lips will just get torn apart more.