Kissing
It's time we did some kissing.
None of that pursed-lip pecking
on the way out the door, or the
dry cheek sacrificial offering
before the makeup mirror.
I'm talking about kissing. Making
out. The kind you can't wait
to do the first time you go out.
The open-lipped, pulling each
other together, searching with
the mouth. The coming up for
air and diving right back down,
whole body kind of kissing in
which our lips can't seem to
ever get enough, in which our
muscles flex and hands grasp
and eyes close and our chests
are pressed together, expanding
like bellows, and we say Mmmm
into each other because aren't we
delicious. And you might think
I'm confused, that I'm talking
about sex (because isn't that what
happens when that bottle gets
uncapped). But I am talking
about kissing. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
The carbonated, blinding, mystic
space. The wet and wordless
convergence of our faces. The
celebration of tongue and teeth.
The slow, sloppy teen-age type
of race to the top of one another
that lingers at every. blessed. step.
The kind of kissing that sparks
and pops and leaves us panting
at the edge of an unguarded drop
into one another. A hovering and
heaving collection of pauses
before we are sent into the frenzy
and eventually relent, spent and
melted down, muddled, worn,
a puddle of our former selves.
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