screwing irony.

Such an irony. Such a fucking irony. That im sitting here thinking, roaming the thought with my very lips, that any kiss holds the epitome of sacred. Unable to let that label go. Regardless. Of how many. Wrong reasons. Or anger. Frustration or numbness there is in it. No matter how dirty the lips that wreak it. Its untouchable. The why. Its meant to exist.
Because there will always. Be some. Edge of the tip of the feeling. Dipping its trust into it. Its words. It’s the way tongues speak when they have shaken too much in crying. And the way lips sigh when fear has held them shut for too long. It’s the way these words had a history and the way something out of it was shared. That minds can speak through bodies for those that cringe at the idea of words setting them bare. For the moments, that cannot be explained. For the times that things would happen. Occurrences that deserve no forgiveness, because no “im sorry” need be said. It’s a scream, without the vocal cords tearing, because there is too much salt turned acid in throats. And the violence of the profoundly misunderstood clashing between two mouths. The trick of the lips, saying soft and sweet. Just to reveal theres fucking muscle within. Praying to be felt. To be awakened. Into something more. Than a mundane alcoholic swipe of the care card.