They always describe words as dripping-whoever they are.
Words drip from your lips,
drip from a microphone,
drip from the speakers of your car.

My words do not drip like the forlorn water clinging to the water faucet after their companions have ceased to flow.

My words attach. And they hold on.

To what, I can't be certain- who can be certain of anything in this mired time of our lives- but I know it keeps me going, I know not where, but that is the consolation.

You are steering me in whichever direction I am meant to go, and my words are the oars. They may have seemed ill-said, but they put me in the direction in which Fate would have me drift.

But not aimlessly.

So, darling, when my words hold onto you and attach themselves to your lips, will you leave them there?

Or will you let them drip away?