Hardly wet, but a tell-tale line
of recent history,
too insubstantial
to wipe its substrate
clean.

This tickling, trickling saline,
this paltry moistness, is
no more than the
slightest sign of
the great unbidden
Charybdis welling
deep within.

Outpouring of the overwhelmed
its course too lies
downwards,
ejected from the body,
charting such depths of sorrow
in its parting.

Eschewed by eye,
this fickle transitory thing,
of little consequence,
devoid of any feeling, thence
curls slightly and, beguilingly,
kisses my lips.

I taste it hungrily, hoping to slake
my longing but, in turning
it dissolves, merging with
more venal body fluids,
leaving only the cry, of
that which was.