You left your words on my lips.
I’ve heard this song before.
You kissed the ink, then you kissed me and left a stain on my cheek. It was like spilling tea on paper, leaving it more crinkly and stiff than before.
You felt everything through that ink. You brought life to it, nurturing the words you wrote. You tugged me into them and dragged my brain on the floor until I was bleeding and wanted to leave. You are a whole different person now.

Poets live two lives. One is in their heads and the other is outside of them.
Poets write their mistakes down in sorrow. They give you all of their love so you don’t make the same mistakes they did.
They love you deeply; a kind of love they often can’t afford themselves.

You kiss the ink as it sinks into a crisp notebook. You stitched me into your mind and bound me to your thoughts. You run circles around your own brain, sewing up loose ends in every corner, frantically organizing your mind.
You kissed the ink, then kissed me, and left a stain on my lips. It dried like a tomato in the sun.
Only the tears of a poet can leave such a stain.