The Geometry of a Kiss

 The Geometry of a Kiss

I.
It begins with a tremor,
a whisper along the spine,
like the hush of wind
before a storm bends the trees.
Your lips find mine
and the world tilts,
spinning into a cathedral
where time has no authority,
where seconds dissolve
like sugar in warm tea.

A kiss is not merely touch;
it is cartography—
mapping the curves of desire,
the hidden valleys of longing,
the rivers that run beneath skin
and pulse with secret fires.
I trace the compass of your mouth,
every sigh a latitude,
every tremble a longitude,
and in this geography,
I am both lost and found.

II.
I feel the heat of your breath
like summer spilling over stone,
like sunlight slipping
through a cathedral window,
painting the shadows gold.
There is a rhythm here,
a language older than speech,
that hums between us,
tightens the air,
wraps the universe
around the simple collision
of our mouths.

Your kiss tastes of rain-washed streets,
of late-night coffee,
of the quiet hope
that something sacred
lives in fleeting things.
I drink it slowly,
as if savoring the last drop
of a dream I do not want to wake from.
And in that taste,
I taste the promise
of everything unsaid,
everything we cannot name
but already know.

III.
A kiss is gravity.
It pulls me into you
with the inevitability of oceans
finding the shore,
of stars collapsing into themselves
to create light.
I feel the weight of it,
soft yet insistent,
as if every molecule
of our beings
recognizes a truth
older than memory.

It is in the trembling of your hands,
in the way your pulse hums
against my chest,
in the quiet surrender
that blooms behind closed eyes.
We are a universe condensed,
a galaxy spinning
in the infinite stillness
between one heartbeat
and the next.

IV.
I remember every kiss,
even the ones that lingered
only in the corner of a room,
in the echo of a hallway,
in the brush of your cheek
against my hand.
Each one is a star
etched into the night of my mind,
a constellation
I return to again and again,
finding new meaning
in the familiar light.

Some kisses are fire,
wild and consuming,
burning through hesitation
and doubt,
leaving only ash
and a new, strange warmth.
Some kisses are rain,
soft and insistent,
washing the dust from the soul,
leaving the world
fresh and unclaimed.
Some are both,
and I chase them endlessly,
the way rivers chase the sea,
the way night chases day.

V.
When our lips meet now,
it is more than a kiss.
It is the confession
of everything we cannot say,
the surrender of two bodies
to something vast
and unspoken.
It is a promise written
not in words,
but in the press of skin against skin,
the quiet explosion
of two hearts
learning their reflection
in one another.

And afterward,
when the world returns,
when the ordinary resumes its slow rotation,
I carry it with me—
a pulse beneath my ribs,
a secret fire,
the proof
that even the smallest contact
can bend eternity,
that a single kiss
can contain infinity.