sometimes they’re stolen, exchanged between lovers
who do not really belong to each other.
Then they’re hungry, angry, clinging,
not knowing if the yearning lust that drives them
will be sated.
These bring out the claws: hers leave welts on his back
that he won’t be able to explain; his leave scars on her soul,
she’ll never fully trust him again.
sometimes they’re sweet and mellow. These are the times
when you reach over and hold on to your love,
because you will float away on a cloud of bliss if you let go.
These are much, much more than a puckered mouth, these are the kind
that sip on a proffered neck, or on a bead of precum, the sort that
draw a nipple out of hiding, and cause spread legs to try to close
and newlywed bodies to writhe and judder.
Sometimes they’re playful, experimental, pushing boundaries.
They speak of the will for love to grow, to thrive or survive.
They’re exchanged between paramours who want more; those for whom
seven, fifteen, twenty years of life together still bring opportunities
for delightful discovery. You like being kissed there!
Yes, and nibbled and licked and sucked and loved and teased
and caressed and stroked and touched. Who knew? And who knew that a kiss could be so much.
sometimes more masturbatory than real, they’re exchanged between friends
with very special benefits. They speak of lonely making-do.
You’re in Oslo, I’m in Kingston; you’re in JoBerg or Mombassa, I’m in Buenos Aires;
you’re in Toronto, but I feel your passion in Taipei, in Ulan Bator, in Alexandria, in New York, in LA.
I play with myself, and then kiss my fingers and touch the screen;
sending my dirty caress across the space that separates us.
It’s hard, you say? I know; I’m looking at you.