It was such an inconvenience. To kiss.
Oh, what of my breath? Oh, but I just ate!
My gum, my lozenge, the Colgate!?
So we made easy fair of simpler things.
Holding hands and warm, endless hugs
We regulate. Much easier. Much safer.
Brief touches, smiling glances, gentle advances
even what the Eskimos are said to do with noses
But I must admit, I still long
for that inconvenient sweet.
That salted, half-bitter mocha is what I yearn for
the pressure of your lips, and the hunt for your tongue
Silky and pebbly, and coated with the memories
of what may have beat me to your mouth first
but what I intend to make you forget
And the danger of kissing too deeply, or not deeply enough,
wisely and chastely, passionately and with the intent
to rob the very breath we both must seek, but both must deny to give back
in gasps and laughs and sighs and promises of more…yet more…
I can think of no greater thrill than the hunt of the kiss.
I miss kissing you. Like I miss hairpin turns a little too fast
a mad dash braking before breaking, or a wall an inch too close…
close calls with sharp-toothed bites and rabid eyes and snarls abundant
and saving, savoury, angel dances at the edge of a flight of steps
half a heartbeat before down into the oblivion we all must fall…
Ignorant of garlic or spice. Mint, oil, acid, sweet, or the tang
of sharp wisdom, warm whispers and shivering whimpers
I’ll gladly taste it all. False or true. Great or small.
So long as it comes from the mouth of you.
Yes. I must admit. I still long for that
inconvenient sweet.
