Creases woven in fabric like May petals
Sunk into heavy mud.
As a child, I’ve always been afraid
Of standing near a cliffs edge.
Wrapped in arms, folded; placed neatly.
Matches in a match box.
Igniting a flame, when pursed lips
Smooth the center of my cheek.
Desperately seeking colors
Falling through the holes of my fingers.
As a child I imagined a kiss being
But this- The Kiss -
Blankets me in igneous.
Like falling into lava deems delicate.
Forever graven on my palms
As I melt softly
Into the weak pulsations of your throat
Spiraling down beyond the cliffs teeth
Biting as I curl my toes into soft sand
Like warm rice pudding on my tongue.
Radiating glory through my veins,
Injected with love from a painful needle
Because as a child I was taught
The best of things
Hurt the most.
(Based off of the painting The Kiss by Gustav Klimt)