A kiss is
permission.

I thought that was beautiful.

So cold, so stern,
powerful steps
one after another, after another.
Your strides make the sound of a faint wind
rustling through tall grasses
as you brush past me.
I smell fire in the brush
beyond.

Your fierce jaw line,
squared off,
leaves no room for mistakes;
it would seem to me
the rounded curve of my chin
would be
unforgiven
by your no-nonsense
facial structure.

Yet your eyes, so much kinder
on the tameness of my cheeks . . .
every now and then, I can feel your gaze
rubbing against the fine blonde hairs
of my skin.

Every touch was carefully executed,
every glance, carefully drawn.
My adoration of you came in increments
so as to slowly assure you
that once I did fear you,
but now I can only love.

Permission to speak freely . . .
I wonder if it is given
as you grab my shoulder and pull me toward you.
Am I allowed now
to let love form the teeth of my smile?

A kiss
is equality.
A kiss
is recognizing
we cannot be alone.
A kiss is,
“I am not alone
anymore.”

My body pressed against yours.
I can scarcely believe
that I can feel the heat of your skin.
I had always wondered
if your blood was warm
like the rest of us.
I have spent so long
anticipating the moment I would with a steady hand hold you
that the only thing I can think
when your mouth comes hard in over mine
is,
“. . . I can really touch him now.”

You hold me a moment,
one hand folded awkwardly against your chest,
the other on the back of your neck,
palms scorching from the light.

You break away and say goodnight.

                                                                                     A kiss is equality.
                                                                              “I am not alone anymore.”



I never saw him again.