Byron wrote of the rapture which
dwells on the first kiss of love.
The kiss and the rapture I remember,
the name of the pretty high scool sophomore
is lost in a gallery of pretty faces that linger
in the corner of the brain reserved for past loves.
That kiss occurred at a Halloween costume party.
I was a masked multicolored matador.
In those pubescent days, after
ducking for apples and pinning a tail on the donkey,
a gathering of fourteen-year-old libidos
turned to the reason they attended the party:
post office, mail delivered in a darkened closet
off the living room under the stairs.
The idea of kissing my first girl was daunting.
Suppose in the dark I missed her lips
and bit her nose or dainty neck.
She might think I was a latent Latin vampire.
I could end up with a knee in the groin
or a wooden stake in my heart.
So I was prudent when it came to be my turn
to deliver the mail to a Vivian Leigh clone
right out of Gone With the Wind.
I slipped into the closet and took a minute
to grope my way around her face,
fumbling awkwardly with her ears,
then her eyes, her chin, but once I
located her lips, her budding breast
cupped in my right hand,
I moved in slowly, the way Rhett would do it,
and planted my first kiss:
a soulful, lingering sensation that excited me
in body parts not entirely unexplored,
so much so that I squeezed poor
Vivian until she swooned in my arms.
For weeks they called me killer.
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Newfie Hugs, Rose
John
Be always safe,
Karen
i lvoe the way you turn the everyday into the ethereal. .. .
ness
Dang it. Now I'm jealous: I wish I were the recipient!! I've got the vapors all of a sudden: frankly, my dear, I do give a damn! LOL Oh, the kiss you plant lingers ... my hero! Well done!
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.
Very sweet and the beginning of your manhood..lovely poem
Peace, love, and light,
Amber "V"