Your kiss

If I wanted to speak of your kiss, I wouldn’t speak of your mouth covering mine, simultaneously demanding and pleading.

No.

If I wanted to speak of your kiss, I would speak of my mouth that waits and surrenders to your whims;

I would speak of the saliva that springs forth beneath my tongue; and of the taste that always lingers afterwards.

If I wanted to speak of your kiss, I would speak of my skin that tingles, that senses your approach in every exposed millimeter, in every hidden pore, in every unknown groove. My skin that yearns for your touch from the soles of my feet to the roots of my hair. It sparks, embarrassing me by revealing how addicted my body is to your touch.

If I wanted to speak of your kiss, I would speak of my quickening breath, expelling the bursts of life I dedicate to you.

Life that leaves me and takes you.

Life that slips away from me and rises in you.

Life that breathes a sigh that is no longer mine. It’s ours.

If I wanted to speak of your kiss, I would speak of my hands that trace your nape, entangling themselves in your hair and absorbing your lingering scent.

Perennial

Unceasing

Intoxicating

And every time I touch my chin to think of you, it makes me think of you even more.

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

Come and kiss me!