Kissing
You were seventeen, I was fourteen.
I loved how your deep voice boomed in the night,
even though you were describing an x-rated movie scene.
One evening, you drove me home, driving like a maniac,
but I loved how it felt to fly
down Pennsylvania roads.
For fourteen months, we were inseparable,
playing basketball, kissing, walking in the woods,
kissing, going bowling, kissing, watching movies,
kissing, going to church, kissing, hanging out with friends,
kissing, tinkering with ham radio in your shop,
kissing, painting your MGB bright orange, kissing.
After dates, huddled in a kitchen corner,
we sipped mint tea, munched cinnamon toast,
talked and kissed with an eye toward my parents’ room.
We spent the next three years
trying to break up
but always getting back together,
until we just got sick of each other. Fast forwarding
almost three years, you met my fiancé and you hit it off.
Somehow you ended up in our wedding party and our wedding was on your birthday.
Every once in awhile you pop up in my dreams
and we’re usually kissing.
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