Your mouth
on Mine
Your lips
dripping with poetry
Wet
Your spearmint tongue
Breathless
Some of your
Fiery Amber (or is it Moulin rouge?)
Swallowed whole today
With a tear or two
And saliva strawberries
At two hours, nineteen minutes and forty six seconds exactly
And broken only because of the long distance from France
It's not quite the Guinness book kiss
But it gives us
one hard on,
two parched mouths
an adrenaline rush,
something to write about,
scandalized neighbors,
sweet weariness,
Lipstick on my collars
And Hickeys on your lip
Now you'll not be able to show your face for a week
She parts her lips another centimeter, so that her mouth twitches slightly
She closes her eyes
The moment is suddenly, unexpectedly perfect
He aims his lips for hers,
But she instinctively (As a reflex action) turns her face so as to evade them and offers him her cheek instead
Then guiltily, she catches herself and tries turning back
But it's too late and she ends up grazing the side of his lips with her own
It's an awkward moment
She's relieved, giggling; he's surprised, then perturbed and then slowly, furious
He thinks
She's either too conventional
Or a little reluctant
Or too scared to reveal herself
She thinks
If you look closely
You'll see that my lips are not saying what I want to
She liked the way he always smelled of a familiar morning
Brut aftershave, Keo Karpin coconut oil and strong filter coffee
And of old editions of Ananda Bazaar, Mogras, morning breeze at Kalighat, and Hemanta on the radio
He smelled like their childhood, lived in a two room affair somewhere in Rippon Lane
He smelled like Calcutta
Like '93
Like home
Like love
Like her
That moment now appears definitive
When one possible future ended and another started
Here, fifteen years ago, they'd stood and argued
Whether he had kissed her or she had kissed him?
That doesn't really matter now
For they had kissed
Or hadn't
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