At first, there is the kiss of you.

by Ink

At first, there is the look of you,
eyes behind a storm door,
eager for electricity
beckoned by anxious, giddy dances
whirled upon your bedroom floor.

🩷🩷🩷

At first there is the reveal –
pairings of cottons or nylons or other fabrics,
blushing in their best patterns or prints,
of which I will always be jealous
for gloving your skin so much that

🩷🩷🩷

At first, there is the cupping of your
bare hands in mine
to weave gloves of
our interlaced fingers
before they unravel, because

🩷🩷🩷

At first, I must make the small of my back
broad enough for your fingers to fan out,
claim their territories,
pull me closer. That is to say

🩷🩷🩷

At first, there is the hope
for the lips of you,
whose hellos and welcome backs
speak in pucker and gentle nip
and curl into the rarest,
most treasured smile.

🩷🩷🩷

At first, each and every,
whether or not I’ve just pulled into your
driveway or woken from
those cursed hours of sleep
which wrest control over how much
I can fawn over thoughts of you,
is the desire to keep you rapt in that electricity
between anticipation and consummation,
like every thought
of every approaching moment with you
has already given me.

🩷🩷🩷

Balancing a taste for all things caffeinated with a thorough knowledge of how to waste time, Ink (he/him) stains the pages of online and print periodicals periodically and often performs at open mics of ill repute in the NJ/NY/PA area. He is the EIC of Stanza Cannon, an online journal for oral poetry, and has chapbooks out via Finishing Line Press (61 Central), Back Room Poetry (The Vessel of the Now) , and Alien Buddha Press (Pining). Ink’s full-length poetry collections include Death Loves a Drinking Game (Piscataway House Press) and Miserable with Fire.