Rippling words that flowed over paper
And dripped, tasty, from red lips have failed me.
The paper is stained horribly, white, empty,
Bland and salty, and smelling of pale decay.
It leaves a foul taste on the lips, that stays
And evokes lust for something more than hard tack.
These words are worthless, so I erase
And address the envelope empty,
To carry my fractured whispers home.
Spoiler
Something I wrote in April. Not sure about the title.

