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French kiss

Just a poem.

It happened during the real snow, the quickly deepening kind

Making deeper not only itself, but deeper sleep and deeper dreams

Deeper into the countryside, as we passed empty cars

On our way to dangerously deep inside each other

We were unprepared but ready, me acting first

My custom derived from my childhood

Earlier it was sleet and rain and sleet and ice

Us girls had been on the road awhile

Passing in December-storm fashion, undaunted by nature

Exhilarated by escape from the routine

We finally arrived, breathless

Surrounded by suburban afternoon in a suburban mall

Srollers and balloons, condom vending machines in the restrooms

We all kiss-kissed cheeks, except me and him, where it was almost lips

The curious took note of this non-observance of tradition

The guitar, cold in the van, had to come inside

So we walked hunched like melting snowmen into the parking lot

I smelled the leather of his jacket that all the men wear here

His feet were getting wet, so was his beard

I was thinking fast about a kiss, a real kiss

One where the person looks you in the eyes before and after

Tasting your actual thoughts, the way you dream it at fourteen

Kissing for God-knows-how-long

At the car, water streamed from melted slush in wintery rivers

I stumbled over stuff in the dark interior

He was leaning in just slightly, trying to deceive the sleet

When it happened