The I'll love you through a brick wall kiss. But one kiss levitates above all the others. Place it on the tongue's pillow, then look up the first recorded kiss in an encyclopedia: beneath a Babylonian olive tree in 1200 B.C. Hold it to your chest and wonder if the sand inside hourglasses comes from a special beach. It'll turn bright pink and explode into a thousand luscious splinters, but in the morning it'll be ashamed and sneak out of your body without saying good-bye, and you'll remember that kiss forever by all the little cuts it left on the inside of your mouth. It'll get suspicious and stare at your toes. Now what? Don't invite the kiss over and answer the door in your underwear. Rub two warm feelings and presto-you have a kiss. Oh where does one find love? If you rub two glances, you get a smile. If you were younger, you'd pull over, slide open the mouth's red door just to see how it fits. You'll be driving home and see a damaged kiss on the side of the road, with its purple thumb out. ![]() The I know your tongue like the back of my hand kiss. ![]() The I accept your apology, but you make me really mad sometimes kiss. The bury me in an avalanche of tingles kiss. So where does one find love? When you're sixteen it's easy, like being unleashed with a credit card in a department store of kisses. Husbands and wives don't grow on trees, like in the old days. Most drunks don’t die in accidents they orchestrate, and I swallowed a hand grenade that never stops exploding. But at this moment when sweat tingles from me, and blame is as meaningless as shooting up a cow with milk, I realise my kisses filled the halls of your body with smoke, and the lies came like a season. The man in charge of what crosses my mind will lose fingernails, for not turning you away at the border. Your body is the country I’ll never return to. Once I kissed the scar, stretching its sealed eyelid along your inner arm, dried raining strands of hair, full of pheromones, discovered all your idiosyncratic passageways, so I’d know where to run when the cops came. ![]() It isn’t as simple as me climbing into the window to leave six ounces of orange juice and a doughnut by the bed, or me becoming the sand you dug your toes in, on the beach, when you wished to hide them from the sun and the fixed eyes of strangers, and your breath broke in waves over my earlobe, splashing through my head, spilling out over the opposite lobe, and my first poems under your door in the unshaven light of dawn: Your eyes remind me of a brick wall about to be hammered by a drunk driver. Mathematicians still don’t understand the ball our hands made, or how your electrocuted grandparents made it possible for you to light my cigarettes with your eyes.
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