The Kiss

Her lips were nervous as a butterfly, unsure whether to alight or flit away into the sun. His were the bruised plums she longed to split open and taste, but with all the wariness of a wolf in winter her eyes found the rough, storm torn bark of the trees instead. Doubt was the wheel ever spinning in the cavity of her chest, long since filled with a straw doll that only beat when desperate to escape a self built cage. Wonder was the whistle of the amber leaves in her ears, reminders that while everything falls and nothing lasts beauty and grace come around again. Lipstick stained, crimson pavement collided with the busses who wait in line and forever long to run but lack the room or opportunity. At night they flee along roads slick as tears until the gas that blocks each star has run down and their eventual slow crawl and stop is cradled by neon blankets that cause all that is not silver to glitter and take on a new life. She was flighty and furious as the rats she once called brethren, in a tunnel that has no altar on the faded and crumbling platform but is holy as the dome that need bow its’ head to no-one in a city of splendour and filth.
He was the king of the dark alleys and cobbled archways and moved like a lion against the flood of people: all grace and restrained power, rippling pebbles on a moonlit lake.

The splash seems insignificant but the widening circles have an impact on the deepest parts of the black water. He was a reverse supernova, one that floods the world with fire and light that embraces those he chooses to touch instead of keeping the divine spark to himself. The stroke of his fingers were third degree burns waiting to happen; a sudden flash of heat followed by absence of pain. His words were honeyed and smooth as a finely aged scotch and she felt the same kick in her belly every time he spoke. He carried heaven and hell with him and the scent of smoke; a wildfire waiting to happen with sparklers for eyes and a smile that tore out her eyes. She had never imagined anything like him, and found herself believing he was real only because her imagination was too flawed to build such a dream. With a caress that cut deeper than any sword, he pressed his lips to hers and stilled anxious, overflowing words.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s