By Cynia Barnwell
I think I had my first kiss.
I must admit, my lips have been touched by others.
Touches that tasted like lust, tongues wagging wet and hungry.
Aggressive hands that run, poke, and prod.
Besos that tease the body but ignore the mind.
Makeouts that left me thirsty but never fulfilled.
I never knew a kiss could quench me;
Make my heart beat hard and fast while the world around me slowed.
In the midst of our words, you grabbed my face as if not another moment could be wasted without you knowing my taste.
You hovered over me, floating closely above until I could not see.
Your image became blurred by the proximity but permeated my spirit.
And there I carry that feeling.
And that night we conceived. Conceived of words, possibilities, and dreams.
You summoned your courage and slayed my guard.
And there we met each other in the middle.
Your kiss didn’t feel effortless, or bold, no nervous energy to consume me.
Your kiss was not an action, it was a resource.
Your kiss was home.