I was worried that if I kissed you,
You might become a real person
and I'm terrified of anything but ideas
Ideas I'm only frightened by
But I can put them into poems
working on them wistful words
Winding roads of imagery
Paint you into symmetry, easily
no contradictions unless they fit nicely
Onto a page.
But if I kissed you,
Suddenly your lips would be chapped.
You'd probably be breathing, and I probably would taste
Something other than sweet cider on your lips.
Lips are skin, after all, and we all have skin.
Skin isn't porcelain or poetry -
Your skin can't make me cry because
I have skin just like it -
Cells on cells on matter,
Blood. *****. ***. Spit. Ingrown hairs.
I was worried if i kissed you you'd stop being my savior,
and id start being the confused college girl I chastised in my sleep.
In dreams, you taste like apples, peaches, wet but warm and soft
What if in real life, you find bits of food in your teeth, too?
I was worried if I kissed you so I never kissed you.
Instead, I started thinking about the bumps on your thighs
The scabs on your chin,
Wrinkles on your hands,
I found out there was a lot I hadn't painted yet,
There was so much more to work with
now that you are real.