The Kiss

That kiss is still moving, lips pursed, migrating in time until my own lips pucker sensing bubblegum lipstick. That unseasoned taste of young lips now wayfaring and rekindled within a hundred mature women. Landfalls, rainfalls, waterfalls, all that falling into willing mouths as if we were parents to each other, a consuming need to nurture and be nurtured. Then those savage collisions where blood is the thirst, where lip to lip, fevered senses are ground into ash or embers. All those lips perfumed with honey, bitter root and raw moonshine, all exploring ways to drown. That first sweet kiss still moving on, as a question in transit, transient, yet as deep as a desert succulent or as light as any other wild flowering.