A kiss is a millisecond, or hour, (or whatever other period of time that you escape reality and become one with another person) through touching their lips with yours. But, as we know from Flight of the Conchords, a kiss is not a contract. It's a promise. A promise that you're sharing that moment with only them, and that you are willing to spend that increment of time devoting yourself to the only thing that matters to you in the present: them. A kiss is cherished so much that a small chocolate candy was dedicated to the universal verb of love itself: to kiss. To smooch. A Hershey Kiss is sweet, small, and traditional. Just as the action is. A kiss is vulnerability. Naked, without anything fake holding you from the other person. The real you is summoned from behind the front you put up for everyone else to make you seem stronger, only to wisp through the soft pink lips that have whispered so many secrets, said so many words, and bit themselves so many times in a blushing moment when they said you were beautiful, into the others lips where they have done the same. Kissing has no rules. It's who you are in a peck. A movement. An open smile, a nibble, a bite, a tickle. No wonder why it's a special thing. Kissing is melting into the very place you are standing or sitting or laying and melding to the person's soul. The most innocent way to become one with another, risque enough to be special. Kissing can mean nothing, as well. It can be so over used that the meaning and spark has gone from it. Melding to the other person, mashing the color of your skin and the smell of your hair and the warmth of your breath into a pool of indifferent gray. Kissing needs to be used wisely. People often overlook the most beautiful thing in the world, so I decided to give it some recognition. Love, Frances.