I trace the curve of your mouth, and I map out each and every individual crack and crevice - because winter has never been kind to you. Your mouth is thin, a small line upon your pretty face, and you hardly ever smile. I ask you why. "Because," you say, "I'm ugly when I smile". "No, you're not!" I snap almost instantly, and you laugh at my decisiveness. "How would you know? You've never seen me smile". You look so smug. "Because you can't ever be ugly, not to me. It's impossible." Your mouth twitches, and suddenly you smile and I want to cry because there's a definite curve to your mouth, no matter how small and unsure. It's sort of awkward, because your top lip has been eaten by your mouth whilst your bottom lip remains very much in existence; fat and prominent, it curves at the edges - cracks down the middle - and I watch, fascinated, as vermilion swells to the surface. I kiss the wound; smile against it. "See?" I taunt, "still as pretty as ever". You throw your head back, laughing, before smacking me upside the head - I somehow find it very hard to care.