, , , , , ,

dance-hugSometimes a poem just will not emerge when beckoned. Sometimes the poem takes on a weird shape, somewhat like a story. This vignette sprang forth in a writer’s muse early on a Sunday morning.

While this writing is vignette and story-like, it arrived to me as poetic, at least in some facets. Ok, so maybe it is more story than poetry, but I wrote it, so I post it…

The Kiss

Locked arm in arm, they were a slow moving mass of silent words and racing heartbeats.

His glances her way revealed stunning beauty, even though few would place her on a magazine cover.

When she stole a look his way she drank in timid brilliance and a playful puppy trying to behave.

Inevitably they reached her porch and the end of all things magical. He slipped his left arm to her back. They now faced each other.

Fingers of his right hand floated soft and surreal to her chin, followed by his lips on hers. Blues eyes swam serene in her vision while the gossamer kiss brushed her heart. She recalled younger days when a moment like this would have defined love.

“Why did you do that?”

“Because I had to.” He strolled away wearing a smile.

He glided from the raven-haired angel, aware of little more than the thrills and chills raining a cacophony of tingles throughout his psyche. He’d stepped up and met his fear without relinquishing desire. He felt completion and embarkation simultaneously.  Confusion, hope, anticipation, and serenity entered his body like a breath. His exhale sent relief and exhilaration over his tongue.

“I’m alive,” tumbled, whisper-like, from his lips into the cool night air…