The kiss given with one intent
is often received as strewn.
The air between lips is the empty in a china
cup, the light between is a gauzy nightgown.
The kiss given is reckless,
not firm nor soft, not blue chiffon at all—
but blind resuscitation
with Cirque de Soleil expectation.
The kiss given is veiled,
tulle sucked between zealous mouths,
and although going unseen
is a pain greater than gripped shards,
some lovers’ hunger never dovetails
into grace and appreciation.
Too often, kissing is a shroud,
a wool coat pulled against cold—
that kiss, tame and shamefaced,
becomes frayed and faded as used, faux roses.
What lover wouldn’t prefer a lust
whose tempest judders the house?
Too often, the kiss ventured
flops, a fumbled attempt,
like a strawberry dropped on the tile
that had hit the lip of the champagne flute.
Better to invest, go all-in when kissing,
like solitudes that border and protect,
seekers digging, bare handed, together,
to unearth what each alone can become.
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