Someone once asked me to write a poem about a kiss so I did

I can still recite the day’s minutes,

those hours I held with my tongue, trying  to swallow

the colour of cherries from your lips into my belly

I still spin time into words,

weave electricity from memories in my flesh

into a cloak of frayed words

to disappear into the moment when

my smile slipped onto your lips.

I thought I felt your breath mist

over branches of bronchioles,

shivering over a barricade of  little alveolar fruits

thrilling in my chest, and my toes trembling

against your shins, I remember falling

perched on your lap into spaces in my skin

I forgot I had.

Before, I remember the way I stepped lightly around the snails,
frightened by big beautiful raindrops hammering patterns
into their soft bodies, barely protected by fragile shells and mucus, you asked
if I’d be gentle enough to step  around  their colourful little shells decorating
the stone path. I wondered if you, twice sized me, could ever step as lightly as I did
but I never turned to check.

And later, the way later your fingers slipped everywhere,

when my body asked to hold your hand.

And in the morning, I left behind little words of hope etched against your teeth –

advice too hastily left for the next girl you open with a kiss:

trust does not always have to be laced with pain.

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