When we kiss there is predictable harmony that tries to drown me. There is a droll predictability to happiness. You resent it, yet crave it, and depend on it. You embrace it with the troubled antagonism you would embrace your brother after a 20-year stint in state prison. She smiles, her eyes look beautiful. They always look beautiful when they are so close to your own. Wide-eyed, innocent, devoted. Proximity deludes. Satisfaction cascades. You know this is a fleeting sunlit moment. You can have many moments in the sun but two can never… Two people, synchronized in a bout of dueling energies will feast upon the other’s ego. It’s inevitable. This is how we are constructed. Knowing this, you purse your lips and feel her warm moistness reciprocate against you and you hold her shoulder blades in your arms. All is well for the moment. However, the inner clock, the latent turmoil and doom, await your friendly greeting, but for now. Happiness.
You two: kissing, loving each other’s pyres in the afternoon Wintry sun, are magnifiers. Just as medical scientists chemically amplify viruses, you amplify love and good will and savor this candied moment. Doom hovers but it’s best ignored.
Her lips press yours again. Agony and futility rendered hidden. Her warm plumpness. Women are plump and soft and that is the indelible physical memory that resides in your mind. The bloated calm, the serpentine gusto. The carefree horniness and relinquishment to logic and indecipherable fate.
Too much happiness barters with a steep price.
Sometimes, the room is bright, the December day is unrealistically tinged with a warm sunny glow. Your kiss carries all the magnified unreality you can muster. And sometimes, in the middle of the burning kiss, in the depths of the primordial embrace, darkness drops from the sky.
Like a curtain.
Like a bolt of darkening lightning.
Death and petulance. The end and the beyond visit and intrude and extinguish heat in a muffle.
You are startled, but still, you continue your to proclaim your humanity.
The moment you planted your lips on hers, you had an image and a sensation. Black endless gloom, the surety of death to come. The horizon blurred, became black, misery was at hand.
You can only escape it for so long.
It will remind you when you least remember its omnipotent prowess.
In the middle of this kiss the end stands and steals your attention. It refuses to be ignored. Death is not far afield, ever. The kiss is brief, a momentary warmth, like when you blow into your hand on a viciously cold morning.
It cures the tempest, but does not quell the agony.
Don’t kiss her too hard for even that will not rescue your dwindling spirit.