Seven of Them

‎”…all kisses are metaphors decipherable by allocations of time, circumstance, and understanding…”
~Saul Williams

I

It is not
the first time
a man pressed
lips boldly
against the back
of my hand,
but that quick act,
from a brass jaw
accompanied by
crystal gaze,
caused a blush
from inside out
painting the pink
of vulnerability.

II

On our wedding day,
he took his time,
knowing he had forever.

It wasn’t the kiss
I blew when I rushed
out the door,
or the one he stole when
the late hours
of night crept in.

He could start slow,
lips together before parting,
desire restrained
before release.

It was his hand
on her waist,
the curve of fingers
in-between his own.
Not a grip,
but an interweave,
gentle as the
rain leaking from the roof
after the storm.

III

Sitting on the bed
in your hotel room,
you worked all night
to get me there
alone.

I worked all
night to let you.

Safe from peering eyes
with the conversation
drying on our tongues,
you ask,
with the respect of a prayer:

Can I kiss you?

It was a question
I answered hours ago.

IV

Her lips,
the petals of daffodils,
we lacked the grace
of age’s implication
and fumbled foolish,
like children
underwater.

V

I feel the rash
on my face,
a blossom of red where
beard rubbed
sensitive chin
and cheeks.

I imagine my appearance,
like a child eating pie
with hands tied behind back,
cherry filling smeared
left and right.

This is how you reflect
upon my skin.

VI

He thinks she doesn’t
know he’s there,
but she feels
his presence
in the doorway.

She stands
her back to him,
not acknowledging
his stare
as she slips
clothes to floor.

She pretends not
to notice his approach,
until his hand
finds its space upon
bare hip and his
lips caress the
tender top of spine,
she closes her
eyes and exhales.

VII

Part of me knows
it is the last.
It’s why I take
my time,
hovering lips
beside yours,
breathing in your air,
an exchange of vows
or last rites.

Kiss

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