Kisses of Hope
There are kisses in which people want to get lost,
There are kisses in which people want to be found.
There are kisses that fade into pecks of routine.
There are routines that fade into lives of regret.
There are routines that put people
together with progress,
and the synchronicity of hearts.
Kisses are the fruits of hope.
Routines are building hope.
There is great duality to hope.
It is an ideal and an instinct,
we put hope high and discard it at once.
Hope skips the adrenal gland
and stimulates the mind with images and places
where the body is not, and so the mind
suppresses this high instinct, talks about it
safely, as the rhetorical virtue.
But when I kiss you,
I feel you committed to kiss,
I open my eyes to peek at your lashes,
I feel as if you are leaving the world without hesitation
and with full confidence that it will be there
for you when you are ready to return —
but no hurry.
And your kiss allows me my best instinct.
I found you by the guidance of this instinct.
And because of hope we sit in the sand
on a mat that you brought, with the enchanted jingle
of carousel drifting over footpath,
as the sun holds your twilight painting above.
