Lip Print

It's not the color your lip print makes
but the creases in between.
It's not the pain our love forsakes,
it's that it's never seen.
It's not your sweat against my skin
but the rancid taste of salt.
It's not the fact of where we've been,
it's that it's all my fault.
Problems can be solved, if given a little time
But when love's dissolved, life's filled with filthy brine.

It's not the passing of your scent, drifting in the air
but of the love we relent with every lonesome stare.
It's not the care in your hands, combing through my hair
but in your heart when love stands without a flick or flare.
Passion will return to core when you absolve that I am not your problem to solve.

It's not the heat from your cheek, pressed against my chest
but from your form, small, weak, giving life its best.
It's not the tingle in your spine as your form convulses slightly
but in your soul when we align and lay in comfort nightly.
It's not your nails, color-coated
but the marks they leave behind.
It's not the ego, fully bloated,
it's that it's fed too kind.
It's not the hatred when you mock
but the humor in your voice.
It's not a preference, and here's the shock,
it's that it's not a choice.
Read between the lines, unshade the yellow tint.
Look close and one finds truth within a lip print.