Touch - thimbleful

It's his touch she wears on her forehead everyday,
Proudly, colourfully and enviably.
Her lips gently stretch into a smile,
When the reflective surfaces stare at that bright red,
When those fine grains of red decorate her mobile screen,
When the rain morphs into the red liquid that trickles down her face,
When the red sticks to her nails as she wipes the sweat off her forehead,
You know what I mean.

Well, where do you plan to wear mine?

Don't worry about that; it might not be red and bright, but in the right places.