Another Kind of Kiss

I am beginning to miss the fragrance of emergence.

January enters as a softer force than usual, or at least, it feels that way in these curious days of melt. Neighborhood Christmas lights still blare through the night, offsetting the awe of a throw of stars or the vigilant eye of the moon. I remember the night sky in New Zealand. Zero words are available, poetic or otherwise, to describe absolute dark cut by a riot of the cosmos.

Remembering is not the same as being, is it. What am I present to here? The grow lights pop “on” predawn – a solitary weapon against continual sunless skies. Although, the towering shadows of trees become visible slightly earlier these days.

We can grow forever; if we allow it; if we help each other.
We can be unending.
We can be Love.

It's our wedding anniversary. Our love is a kiss in a crowded place. A reminder of safety. A outward display of affection and gratefulness.

There is another kind of kiss. I melt at the idea of it and will die a thousand deaths the day it is allowed.

Please kill me. It is time for this to finish.