poem

 (untitled)

How can kissing this exquisite—as subtle as undulations across the surface of a raindrop somewhere on its way; so passionate, like pastels the colors of white hot fire in the fingers of an artist driven to capture lightning against the rose of dawn; so delicate—like the pink iridescent feathers of a hummingbird's breast, be out of reach, even though a conversation and a few hours of mid-night highway is all there is between; how can kissing— like the kissing yet shared, wait like this?