|Posted on March 24, 2011 at 7:42 AM|
It was the kiss of kisses. If Rodin
Had been around he could have made it a
New work of art for a world to see. Her
Lips were moist and warm; he felt them press soft
Against his own; heard the moan; sensed her breasts
Nudge. This was nothing like what his father
Had once said of kissing, something different,
Nothing missing. He sensed her fingers touch
His neck; they slid slowly down, then up. He
Smelt her perfume; it lingered long after
When the date was over and she’d gone home.
A voice in his head said, take it slow, don’t
Rush it, don’t push too far, don’t go spoil it.
French kissing had been new to him, the tongues
Touched, the exploration, the juices, the
Passion. Not the kind of love or kissing
His father knew or could fashion. His hand
Moved over her back, slid gently over
Her cute ass, touched a thigh. He heard her sigh.
His mother never sighed like that; her sighs
Were for failure, disappointment, and
A love dying. He remembered her in
The bedroom crying. He knew nothing of
Tomorrow or tomorrow’s art or sad
Deceit or how long the love would last or
How long before death’s cruel touch was cast.
This was the love of now, this moment, this
Intimacy of living, a love to
Hold onto, a love to give while giving.