skonen_blades

Kiss me like you’re building a house.
Like your nails are the rivets that will hold our future together and I can see children playing behind windows to your soul.
Show me the good investment that will fill our aching quarries with love and a good foundation.
Take the time to kiss me with each loaf of bread that will sustain us in the decades as we huddle beneath thunder and rain in our shelter, feeling the ancient exhilarating animal fear that strong storms bring.
Let’s tell stories with this kiss. Let’s dare to predict with this kiss. Let this kiss be hope and promises and futures committed to.
Let bridal lace groom tuxedo-tinge it if that’s what it means to you. Let care-bear bibs, your eyes, my nose, jolly jumpers and alphabet blocks tumble out if that’s what it means to you. Let just the two of us selfishly cuddle, save money, and spend it on ourselves over and over again on vacations and cruises and clothes and hotels if that’s what it means to you.
But kiss me like a good future.
Kiss me like this present is a thing of the past.
Kiss me like we’re a path worth following, like a path worth walking on, worth exploring.
Kiss me like you’re telling me as lighting finds its way to earth, we will find our way forward.
Forking and deciding as opportunities explode us in new directions
But us.
Us.
Us.
Kiss me like us.

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Ode to the Second Kiss

This is for the winning triumph in the joy of the second kiss. The first one’s over and there are thousands more to come if you’re lucky but that second kiss, a little more comfortable with each other’s kissing habits, a little more playful, a little more daring, a little more sunken into loyalty and security, is no silver medal. It’s no second place to that overly talked about first meeting of the lips. For me, the first kiss doesn’t hold a candle to the second one. You can take that shining moment of first contact and sell it to Hollywood but you’re not fooling me, First Kiss. You are icing on the cake.

Second Kiss, you make me happier than anything else. Second kiss, you let me know that the battle’s been won. Second kiss, you let me know that she’s sure. Second kiss, you let me know that it wasn’t just a dream, a passing fancy, a breeze, someone else’s lapse in judgment that crossed my lips. You are the language of dots on maps that say You Are Here. You’re better than a dozen roses, sweet desserts, or valentines. You surpass language.

You conjure images of rainy days when we both call in sick and there are a stack of movies to be watched and tea to be drunk. You are an unspooling future, changing into something better as we talk and talk, sinking further into each other, holes in the boats of our loneliness letting it in, letting it in, letting it in. You are potential energy. You are a promise well meant.

Second kiss, you are a familiar flood. You get the better of the love that gets the best of me. You leave me so far away and lost in love that it would take the light from hate years to reach me. Second kiss, you are the unguarded mis-step, the overshare you make with me because you’re more relaxed than you thought you were. Second kiss, you are a safe place, no longer embarrassed. You, second kiss, mean that maybe, just maybe, I’ll have someone to share all of this with.

You are the gem of this dirty world. You are an orchestra caught up in the second measure, lost in the notes long before the finale. You trill with erotic knowledge and times about to be shared. We will start to treat each other like couches, daring to believe that we’ll be around for a while, wallowing in the fact that it’s even possible to take each other for granted.

As far as I’m concerned, you leave the first kiss in the dust.

But you’re nothing compared to the third.

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The tension during visiting time is intense. The eye-sex that happens in prison visiting rooms is like none other on Earth. The rooms are awash with pheromones. It’s a foggy stink that attacks the sex centers of the mind.

When a person inside prison receives visitors, they can’t touch. No physical contact is allowed.

This is tough on people that are in love and visiting each other.

In London, back before the turn of the century, each touch was worth a demerit. Guards made tick marks on pieces of paper to denote the number of touches. Twelve marks were worth an extra year inside the jail.

There were jokes based around inmate’s sentences. “If you keep visiting me, I’m never getting outta here.” was a famous line of the time.

Guards came up with a code. X’s for kisses, O’s for hugs. If a kiss or a hug went over ten seconds, another mark was added.

Mail between inmates and their partners on the outside became signed with X’s and O’s in a sarcastic thumbing of the nose to the guards. "This is how many kisses and hugs I'm giving you. This is how much time you're worth." those crosses and circles said.

It’s where we get those symbols.

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Entries tagged with kiss

2/365 - Kiss Me Like Us

Ode to the Second Kiss

X's and O's

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June 2023

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