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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.

Categories: Terry Collett, Poetry & Lyric

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