Kiss

I caught your lips, cracked from so many promises. They didn’t bleed.

When I restored their shape with a smooth, unfair tongue, they wept.

Two or three fingers emerged from you like shy tentacles. I felt them as an instrument of torture—meant for pulling nails out of shoulder blades.

I let you take hold of me in silence, like an octopus washed ashore—out hunting, yet soothing with all its organs at once.

But as I ran my fingers across your palm, I stumbled upon the knots in your line of fortune. What hands—like those of an Aphrodite born from the sea and left behind on the shore!

Your lips parted, but all that emerged from within was an orphaned breath.

And you drew air through the groove of your lower lip—a channel meant only for air and kisses.

We encircled one another. We gazed at each other with closed eyes—everywhere. Everywhere... Everything.

Yet no touch ever penetrated beyond the tongue—the very tongue with which you first sighed.