The first time I kissed him,
He tasted of
Mints and Hesitation,
And the movement of his tongue
In my mouth.
But the cool touch of his fingers
On my back, on my chest,
Left marks of longing.
I could still feel him in my mouth
Even after he walked away.
Eight days later, I kissed him again
And I realized
There was a flavour to his lips
That I could get used to;
The mints were gone and,
In place of Hesitation,
Poetry, I tasted
Jagged prose, I tasted
A frightening brilliance, I tasted
A dangerous wanting
That may have only been mine.
The first time we fucked, he
Laced our fingers together,
He grounded himself by my hands,
And my name tumbled out of his mouth
In glorious syllabification
As the world deconstructed itself around us
And built itself back up in his eyes.
Later, with my head on his shoulder,
His fingers tangled in my hair, and
My knuckles tracing abstract art on his chest,
He mumbled that he loved me,
With his eyes fixed on a spot overhead,
Sneaking a peek into the rest of the Universe;
As he drifted off to sleep,
I spoke the words “I love you”
Against his cheek.
Every time we kissed, he always had his eyes closed
And I wondered if it made me a bad person,
Watching his face while we made out,
When he was basking in the moment,
Focused on the sensation of lips against lips,
Moans against breaths,
Tongues fighting a battle against teeth and flesh.
Every day, I discovered new tastes in him,
Every day, my lips unearthed a secret flavour
I had not found before, and
Every day, I told him home was
The smell he left in my mouth and, in response,
He told me he’d only ever tasted
Strawberries when he kissed me.
It took me three months and
To realize the foreign taste in his mouth
Was not, in fact,
A Deeper Understanding, or
A Promise of Forever;
It was Cherry Chapstick and