I'm much better at kissing than talking.
I can communicate so much more when
My voice is still and my lips are walking
Softly up to the nape of your neck than
I could ever hope to do with these words
That seem to only be good for masking
What we really mean. Like when we were birds,
My lips were tearful confessors, asking
Questions they didn't want to hear answered,
And though our words said everything was fine
It was with my lips that the truth was heard.
I was not yours, and you could not be mine.
It was the purest way to feel that pain.
You won't taste the truth on my lips again.