Forever in the air
We know it is for free
Out existence on it solely depends
Never did we know
Someday, some would have to depend
What is produced in factories
At a heavy cost
As no more can they breathe in
On their own
For what is forever free

Words sliced
Diced and cubed
In a skewer
Some went into the stew
Chomp them away
Serve them chilled
Or slightly spiced
Many like theirs
Just on the rocks
Some like them sweet
Bitter there is no choice
To swallow and yet not wallow
Never once, forget twice
Words have a flavour of their own
How do you like yours
Grilled with the right spice
Maybe plain
Sans any dressing
Yeah, some like it minced
Each to their own
Words on the platter
Served just right
I like it raw uncut
Organic, fresh from the farm
Sometimes
Well done on both the sides
One can wish as one wants
Priceless the words
As ordered and served fine

If you had used plain, descriptive words in our conversations instead of your cryptic phrases that made no sense in the context, I would have happily lived with you for the rest of my life.