What's to come?

He sang a song on my lips. 

We weren't kissing but we were inevitably close: 

Our first door slamming, voice raising, angryily driving argument; how romantic-ized. 

I could taste the passion on his breath with each word he whispered in his melodic, off-tune fashion, 

And I prayed the flavor of his tune would never taste of liquor- 

After our seventy-third yelling match, 

I prayed he would still mouth the same words of the same sweet song with the same sincere intentions on my much to manage yet yearning lips.  

I hoped and prayed and I did believe, 

But remained afraid,

And weeped for the sake of timely, inevitable, change.