What thing is this — a simple kiss?
It seems a contradiction.
In all my life, not once or twice
Have I enjoyed such fiction.
Confess I must. Sagacious lust?
I’ve yet to feel love’s foment.
My first lip lock came as a shock,
A reflex in the moment.
That fateful first my ideal burst.
I wish the chance had missed me.
She said, “You’re cute.” I played the mute
And suddenly she kissed me.
No fireworks. No buckled knee.
No static electricity.
No angels’ voices from on high.
No nightingale’s sweet lullaby.
No cause to jump or scream or shout.
No thrill worth writing home about.
An osculation of regret.
A prototype I can’t forget.
But since that time there have been nine —
Or eight — I can’t remember.
Not one has sparked a roaring fire
Or even lit an ember.
A languid Lil, a joyless Jill,
A moist, myopic Mandy.
Each one was sweet but incomplete —
They lacked the carnal candy.
On stage and screen all that is seen
Is poignancy and passion,
With savoir faire and sculpted hair
To crown the latest fashion.
And yet real life is never rife
With moments such as these.
If rivaling art is in one’s heart
Real life may never please.
Those we attract inflate the act
With boundless expectation.
Exalting what is nothing but
A silly operation.
Lips, teeth and tongues, steam from the lungs,
All freely intermingle.
I hesitate to contemplate —
What generates that tingle?
Perhaps the key disparity
Is spiritual and mental.
The dormant bliss held in a kiss
So when you find a kindred mind
And no mere set of dimples,
Your search will end. You’ll have the friend
Whom kissing will be simple.