A Meaningless Conversation

Your words play on your vocal chords
Like a rope set
Curling, sliding, climbing
Up into your tangy mouth
That tastes like one too many tic tacs-
I'm glad you're thinking of me.

Your tongue strums the strings
that line your throat
like a harpist's expert fingers
worn from the familiar
dying to taste something new.

The notes bend,
Sliding down your smile
Into my own.
They itch for adventure.
I hope my lungs can satiate them
Until they dissolve:
Fading into their meaning.

I want to catch them on my tongue
Like snow flakes.
Watching them collapse into my own.
They taste like insistence
And the apples
You eat each morning.

I wonder how mine taste.
Can you detect a hint of insecurity?
Or maybe just the orange juice
Caught on my lips
Like beads of sweat.

Your mouth rips open at the seams
Like God's fingernails
Ripping through the sky
at sunrise to deliver
your most insignificant thoughts:
"The world looks extra grey today."

A hand pours out of your mouth
Stretching your lips
With the weight
Of one thousand imaginations,
Dripping the vibrations
Onto my cracking lips
With a pipette
To revive my drying ideas.