the kissing
Mr. Foster keeps sneaking over to my place, sometimes with gifts like a miniature Etch-a-Sketch that he’s written my alter ego name Disasterpants Jones on, other times with Japanese soda with little rolling marbles in the bottle. We sprawl on the floor, looking at each other over folded hands, and almost touch, but do not. We look into each other like we’re reading the tarot of pupil and iris, of eyebrow arch and eyelash. We stare as if we’re asking for our fortunes from a seaside gypsy. The physical attraction heightens. We warm ourselves by this fire, but don’t kiss.
As I’ve said, I’m the type of girl who should be kissed and plenty. I am the Empress on the deck of cards, the Queen of Wands and Swords. I think that lilies could bloom in his hands. We do not kiss. I read to him from my handwritten journal, feeling shy and uncertain. He shakes his head, saying, “You are so fucking incredible,” and I know he means it. His words make me want to write novels to whisper into his ears, to play cello on a street corner if it means that I can fill his life with beauty.
The kissing does not happen.
It gets to the point where I wonder what’s going on and then, I look over at this box full of letters and know we’re learning each other, rolling each other around like fine wine. I’m feral and full of secrets with my mouth and my gaze full on his face. Before he comes over, I paint my eyes with gold powder, pretending it’s butterfly honeybee pollen, pretending it’s the secret to why my blood beats in my wrists and at my throat when he is near. Butterfly-magic, evidence of lust gone to bloom. I wonder if it is ever going to happen, and finally, it does. I lie on my bed, foxfire-hair and smirk like a heart attack. He is at the foot of the bed, tipping his chin into his palm. The light is on his features, and he’s studying me, little me. Suddenly, the air changes between us, and we are kissing and holding on and tangling and seducing each other.
And it is one of the best kisses I ever have had because I am so into him and because we’ve built up to it slowly instead of rushing anything. The kissing lasts for almost seven hours, until my mouth is sore and my skin is passion-bruised. I wrap my legs around him and hold him closer still, and move with the moment. We kiss until it is nearly daylight, and it hasn’t stopped yet.
There is a reason why poets fall violently in love. It’s because we cannot help ourselves and we know no other way to be but fully in the moment, rising and falling on the tides of our making. Tonight, I feel like I could drown twenty sailors with the click of the shells in my hair, feel like I could summon sunken ships from the depths with a flick of the wrist. This power is my gift, a curse born of kisses and mysteries. I love kisses and mysteries like I love few other things in this world.
Disasterpants Jones
As I’ve said, I’m the type of girl who should be kissed and plenty. I am the Empress on the deck of cards, the Queen of Wands and Swords. I think that lilies could bloom in his hands. We do not kiss. I read to him from my handwritten journal, feeling shy and uncertain. He shakes his head, saying, “You are so fucking incredible,” and I know he means it. His words make me want to write novels to whisper into his ears, to play cello on a street corner if it means that I can fill his life with beauty.
The kissing does not happen.
It gets to the point where I wonder what’s going on and then, I look over at this box full of letters and know we’re learning each other, rolling each other around like fine wine. I’m feral and full of secrets with my mouth and my gaze full on his face. Before he comes over, I paint my eyes with gold powder, pretending it’s butterfly honeybee pollen, pretending it’s the secret to why my blood beats in my wrists and at my throat when he is near. Butterfly-magic, evidence of lust gone to bloom. I wonder if it is ever going to happen, and finally, it does. I lie on my bed, foxfire-hair and smirk like a heart attack. He is at the foot of the bed, tipping his chin into his palm. The light is on his features, and he’s studying me, little me. Suddenly, the air changes between us, and we are kissing and holding on and tangling and seducing each other.
And it is one of the best kisses I ever have had because I am so into him and because we’ve built up to it slowly instead of rushing anything. The kissing lasts for almost seven hours, until my mouth is sore and my skin is passion-bruised. I wrap my legs around him and hold him closer still, and move with the moment. We kiss until it is nearly daylight, and it hasn’t stopped yet.
There is a reason why poets fall violently in love. It’s because we cannot help ourselves and we know no other way to be but fully in the moment, rising and falling on the tides of our making. Tonight, I feel like I could drown twenty sailors with the click of the shells in my hair, feel like I could summon sunken ships from the depths with a flick of the wrist. This power is my gift, a curse born of kisses and mysteries. I love kisses and mysteries like I love few other things in this world.
Disasterpants Jones