Cuz Emily Gets Mad That I Never Post...

Wilted petals hang along my encrusted mouth. Not a vehicle not a function performer. Not swallowed. Not eaten. Not said. Yet.
You called when you were alone and I somehow knew that on the other end your lips were moving for me. I knew that they were moving at all. In sync we said goodbye. And I though about how we were never alone, really, together. Not anytime so much as when you called me and I imagined your lips moving at all.
I have romantic ideas about the parchment and San Francisco. Never of you or him. You said you didn't want a relationship. I said we already have one. I want to press my lips to it: the parchment. Seal it in saliva.
I contemplate becoming a scribe. How can I write? I can't draw.