With your kiss still upon my lips,
I watch the door slowly close.
You never said that you had chose.
So the tears down my cheeks slip.

I can still feel your fingertips,
stroking my face as you rose.
With your kiss still upon my lips,
I watch the door slowly close.

Six months does not make a courtship.
No promises made, I suppose.
But why is it you could easily dispose,
of someone you swore to worship,
with your kiss still upon my lips.