Dry Lips Gifting

You couldn’t really
Call them words,

They were
Murmured melodies,

Half way between
Groaning and laughter,

Dry lips gifting
A quick whispered epilogue,

The tiniest circles of spittle
Gently frothing to a close;

It’s the sound people make
When they suddenly realise

There’s no longer
Any need to explain
Every awkward mistake,

To balance out
The feelings of others
And talk just to starve silence.

To some it’s a sigh,
A release,
A full stop,

To me it’s the sound
As a distant star pops.

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