was just a kiss

Kisses don’t lie.

If you pay attention, they can’t.

The best kisses – I mean the very best kisses – have a cadence. They are Mozart. They are Bach. They are Elvis Costello at 2 am.

In the dark.

That first touch. That first note. It sets the stage.

Moments of tense anticipation.

In a split second, invitation extended and accepted.

And accepted.

Energy coursing.

A shared high you’ll be forever chasing.

Read my lips.

When I tease, or nibble, or… pull back… slowly, the build-up is for me as much as for you.

Almost.

Come closer.

Shallow breathing. Deep needing.

All-consuming.

All of you.

My hands locked on that spot above your waist. Guiding. Inviting. Almost insisting.

Almost.

The break between this kiss and the next is excruciatingly necessary.

And short.

Fuck.

If this was a song, that was your chorus.

Then a shared, exhaled, almost giddy secret that only you two know.

And need to add to.

Now.

I love to kiss as if it could be outlawed soon. As if I’m a (preternaturally skilled) kid who is just discovering it. As if one, or both, of us is shipping off to war in the morning. As if they just invented tongues.

I love to kiss.

Kissers can, do, will, shouldn’t (except when they should) lie.

My kisses blurt out exactly what they are thinking.

It borders on blasphemy that I would ever look at anything other than your eyes, but your lips. One day, not long ago, I was looking at your lips and mouth and I wanted to kiss you.

You were talking. It was important. In that moment, at least. You were talking and I was listening, the best I could. I was distracted.

I wanted to kiss you, but I didn’t.

If I kiss you a million times, they’ll each be a tale all their own.

But we’ll never have that story, from the other day.

That makes me a little sad. A little aware.

And it’s the reason I am writing this.

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