The evening we first kissed flew my thoughts into the sky, though my body stayed alert, saying yes and yes, and yes to you. We sat on the davenport, kissing like weedy teenagers barely sated by smorgasbord. It was easy to fall for those smooth vermilion borders, the light brush of soft whiskers against my chin, your warm golden scent. Still, you repeat the story, how I said: I think we should kiss. And we did for over an hour. Your flavor lingers like rustic bread, crusty, yeasty, salty; notes sweet on the back of my tongue that night and still. Now I know how much the granary of your love quenches my thirst, feeding me in a way I never suspected I hungered.
When the water’s gone and the archeologist digs an assortment of objects, some obvious, some not, they’ll ponder ad nauseam what the...
Mr. Trump, the President Says “Mexico’s not sending its best.” And about that wall “I’ll build the best of all.”
Again, the missing crystal comes to mind, dainty glasses so tiny that one could crush a cordial glass in the palm of the hand. I reason...