If Kisses Could Be Sent

Sometimes I want to melt with the morning— ride the sun, swing to the clouds, sing in your voice just once. I never actually told you how I adored those few soft hairs that escaped the grip of your bun. How they danced without permission. How I loved them for it. If kisses could be sent through regret, you’d have one this Christmas— wrapped like a gift I should have sent last July.