Boca Baciata

. . . it hangs forever in the obscurity
of something you almost remember:
the rich, silken hair, the glittering eyes,
the tenderness of a skin
as smooth as violets, as soft as
cotton blowing in summer, or (you once said, laughing)
as a kitten’s belly (at which she growled
like a playful lion – later the playfulness vanished),
the sweetness of those hours, the forgotten years,
and all the world of warmth you once held in your arms:

and the talk! the wonderful talk about everything
beneath and above and never seen by the sun,
the rich, deep, bracing stream of the words you shared -
the words! – from that noble mind, that honest heart,
fearless (you learned, not really) soul,
that almost savage spirit:
it was beautiful, it was beautiful, it was beautiful,
it was so unbearably beautiful it almost destroyed you:

for you are one of the unlucky ones,
made out of pain and awkwardness, untough,
who cannot bear the white-hot coals of love
without breaking and melting into a lump
of sexual pain;
faint-hearted, easily discouraged; not one of the fearless;
perpetually disappointed,
so paying the price in a world made only
for the brave;
and so have lived, must live in the half-dark, the safe,
and sleep alone in a room made cold to the touch
and hoard your love for the silent worship of Love.

And yet it hangs there forever,
like the only photograph of a long, tormented life:
the memory (sad happiness, hope’s fading inversion)
of the beautiful lips
(for once briefly silent, neither speaking nor waiting
for their music to rebegin)

that you, once, and only once,

kissed.