First Kiss

Between the wanting and the oneness
there is a moment –
that wordless, wondering moment
in which I will you to kiss me.

It's as brief as a heartbeat,
as endless as a heartbreak,
as fatal as a heart stop.
What chance do you have?
Don't look into my eyes – you'll be lost.
Don't gaze upon my mouth – you'll fall for
its wantonness,
its sinlessness,
and all its hopeful hopelessness.

Surely you're too sensible,
far too sensible for that.

First, a glance, your quizzical
questioning glance.....
I feel it burning into me,
appraising and figuring,
reckoning the odds.
What is the chance, it asks.
Then a smile, nervous and unnerving,
your self-consciously self-effacing smile.

Now it is you who are teasing me.

Hand reaches for bared arm
laid across my lap, like a trap.
But the touch is not the hand’s,
only a finger – your finger’s tip
grazing the down of my wrist.
Four eyes watch it, fascinated,
as if it is an insect
creeping across my skin.
But then the finger becomes a fist,
curls around my forearm,
and draws me to you,
the one I have drawn to me.

Now we are lost, you and I:
the tilt of my head welcomes you,
palms frame my face,
mouths meld and tongue tips brush
and part and brush again.

Lips and tongue,
tongue and lips
welcome each other’s welcoming.