Your kiss

If I wanted to talk about your kiss, I wouldn’t speak of your mouth covering mine, both demanding and pleading at once.

No.

If I wanted to talk about your kiss, I’d speak of my mouth waiting and surrendering to your whims; I’d speak of the saliva pooling beneath my tongue; and of the lingering taste of more that always remains.

If I wanted to talk about your kiss, I’d speak of my skin that bristles, feeling your approach in every exposed millimeter, in every hidden pore, in every unknown groove. That yearns for your touch from the soles of my feet to the roots of my hair. That sparks with shameful sparks, betraying just how addicted my body is to your touch.

If I wanted to talk about your kiss, I’d speak of my breath quickening, pushing out the gasps of life I dedicate to you.

Life that leaves me and reaches for you.

Life that escapes me and rises to you.

Life that breathes a solace that is no longer mine.

It’s ours.

If I wanted to talk about your kiss, I’d speak of my hands that trace the nape of your neck, tangle in your hair, and bury themselves in the scent that lingers there.

Enduring

Relentless

Toxic

And makes it so that every time I rest my hands on my chin, thinking of you, I think of you even more.

If I wanted to talk about your kiss, I’d speak of my eyes that close so I can feel you better, but ache with longing for your face so near to mine.

If I wanted to talk about your kiss, oh, but of course, I don’t want to talk…

Come kiss me!