My lips have been through lots.
Bruised, busted, ******, *****.
Pink, purple, pierced, painted.
It's routine that they are kissed by the guiding stardust
pulling me in, tossing me out.
Jerking, tumbling, nibbling on nervous tendencies.
They bleed stars and bruise pain-tings.
Double meanings all the same.
Fattened with the truth yet to spill past these teeth
and filling with the blood of all the arguments yet to speak.
My lips need baptizing in happiness:
His kiss.
Pull me in, take my breath.
I'm alive, I'm caving in.
Though my story isn't told and my heart is peaking cold,
I'll always remember my cupid bow lips-
and what a tale they'd have told
If
       You'd
                   Listened.