I loved you when you opened like a lily to the heat; you see I’m just another snowman standing in the rain and sleet who loved you with his frozen love, his second hand physique, with all he is and all he was a thousand kisses deep.
When he kissed me, his lips soft and careful, it was all the thrill of our first kiss and all the practiced familiarity of the accumulated memory of all our kisses.
His kisses were so hungry and male, which isn't bad. Every kiss said he could never have enough, but he wasn't going to stop trying. They were so hormonal. I wanted his sugar roughness. Girl's kisses are deliberate and polished. When she kisses me - when I kiss her - she doesn't want me. She has me and knows it.
Give me kisses! Nay, 'tis true I am just as rich as you; And for every kiss I owe, I can pay you back, you know. Kiss me, then, Every moment, and again.
Her lips are like pillows of warm glass. It is strange to find her resistant for even a second, since she has been the kisser and not the kissed. It wasn't like the last time, which felt fumbling and unnatural. That time wasn't off-putting, just like kissing one's sister. This kiss, my kiss, was tingling sweetness, electric apple blossoms.
Each in the most hidden sack keptthe lost jewels of memory,intense love, secret nights and permanent kisses,the fragment of public or private happiness.A few, the wolves, collected thighs,other men loved the dawn scratchingmountain ranges or ice floes, locomotives, numbers.For me happiness was to share singing,praising, cursing, crying with a thousand eyes.I ask forgiveness for my bad ways:my life had no use on earth.
The kiss is different than I expected. It’s slow and tender, his lips soft and warm against mine. He tastes sweet, like the powdered sugar I spilt and the coffee with chicory he’s always drinking. It’s a perfect first kiss.
Dreams are memories. Memories are dreams. But my time with you hasn’t become a dream just yet. Because the sensation of your kisses keep me from sleep. I’m in love, God help me, I’m in love.
Incidentally, I have also learned a bit about the importance of avoiding feminine embarrassment ('Daddy,' wrote Sophia when she enrolled at the New School where I teach, 'people will ask why is old Christopher Hitchens kissing that girl?') and shall now cease and desist.
I can sense your love,why leave me in darkness?Beguile me for your amusement,stealing my soul without kisses. You are the sun and I, the moon. Your beauty is reflected in my eyes.When we are apart, I am extinguishedin the blackness of these skies.
Does God knowthe number of kissesbefore we fall in love?Yesterday, I was nobodyand I believed myself important.Today,I feel my worth in you.You, with your emerald eyes and ebony hair,even your heartbeat is beautiful.You, who is my greatest joy,all other concerns vanish in your presence.You swallow timeand consume space,inspiring all my passionwith a single embrace.I love your existence.
A blooming flower pleads, oh thee! Look at me, to see the beauty, Kiss me like a bee, To feel the bliss, To taste the nectar of life And just to feel and be. Kiss me like a wave kisses the shore In an endless dancing sea, again and again, just to be.
Pardon me for not being willing to commit my entire future to you based on two kisses and a blueberry muffin.
To love at a distance and without hope; never to possess; to dream chastely of pale charms and impossible kisses extinguished on the waxen brow of death: ah, that is something like it. A delicious straying away from the world, and never the return. As only the unreal is not ignoble and empty, existence must be admitted to be abominable. Yes, imagination is the only good thing which heaven vouchsafes to the skeptic and pessimist, alarmed by the eternal abjectness of life.
Have you ever given yourself to a kiss so completely, that you felt like you surrendered some of yourself and replaced it with a part of them?
Kiss till you can't kiss any more, kiss on the street in front of everyone, kiss as if each one were the last.
Could the two people who are making out please be quiet? the Colonel asked loudly from his sleeping bag. Those of us who are not making out are drunk and tired.
My mouth hung slightly open, i was getting ready to sat something important. what i wanted to say was: I's so, so sorry. but instead I said, i love you. Only then, when i said it out loud, did i know that it was true.Carly threaded her fingers through mine and i squeezed her hand. She said it back to me, and i was relieved in a way that i wasn't expecting. i didn't know that i needed her to say it until she did. i was so grateful; i leaned down and kissed her fearlessly, which was unlike me. When she kissed me back, i brought my hand up and cupped the nape of her neck, pulling her hair with clumsy fingers. i tried to back off, to apologize for hurting her, but she kept me close, kissing me softly at first, then hard and fast until the lines between us blurred.
You askif I will write a poemI could,I supposewrite the mostsplendiferousone of allbut notrightnownot whenyour handsare brewingwarmcinnamon teaacross my skinnot when I’mtrying to imaginewhat might happenif you beganfloweringkissesuponmeMy dear,how canI writea poemwhen I’m alreadyinside one?
Because he is good and kind,” she explained softly, then went on. “Because he treats me like a princess. Because he makes me laugh. Because he makes me happy. Because he took the trouble to read to me when I could not read to myself. Because he fed me and gave me wine when I could not eat or drink at balls. Because when he kisses me my toes curl, and when he makes love to me I cannot contain my passion.
Every day for a week, sitting in my idling car, saying goodbye without saying anything at all—the touch of his hand, his forehead pressed to mine, the way he brushed my hair out of my face, tucking it behind my ear. And still, he hadn’t kissed me. Not once. Nothing but that brief brush of his lips. I was beginning to go a little crazy.