Something gentle about the ache endured
makes the memory of the kiss—
a heart drawn on a window during the rain
from the hot breath of my lips,
a special, daunting
kind of bliss.

Oh, my fingertips were laced
in a leather jacket that wasn’t even mine,
and my stare fell hard down your chest
on a sunny day.

I knew I didn’t want to run away,
but I did—
abandoning reason, slinging tongues.

You felt chosen;
we made it to life together.
A faint art deco,
we wore beauty like a compromise,
tender beneath your storm.
I just wanted to know him.

That printed Kodak from our first day
came back from the fire,
gently placed in a gold frame.
Claws latched into the secondhand smoke,
and I never knew this side of me before—
not since I was a little girl.

So at least I’m grateful
for the memory of the kiss,
the shadow of your heart
on my fingertips.