Sometimes the kisses are a little late coming/like tender little whispers on the skin/they are far too wanton and too cautious to be called kisses/virulent like strong wine is what they should be, ready to take the hand of their receiver and take flight over the seas and praries/casting shadows over this too earthly plane/finding new lands to discover hand in hand, they draw us in and set us alight on their starlight wings/ brushing late tears from our cheeks that shatter our hearts from the wooden caskets we've set them after years of battery.
Kisses should be free to take us in their hands and fly us into the beautiful infinity/borrowing the sun's fire and setting us alight into heaven/stealing breaths from the wind and casting us off like anchorless kites.
This is what kisses should be.
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