Small Talk

Tired eyes worn out with tears   smudged and sodden, tracks reminding of sorrows now past,   (without a chance to explain) Lips that defend until death, still curse that sweet name. :::gentle pressure on paper:::      leads to unimaginable guit Why does ink make things official? Can't speak without fear of consequences? Stillborn remarks come sputtering off that precious tongue,   Yet I try to find beauty in it. Doesn't every good conversation just start to ramble on?