He did not arrive last Friday.
We last saw each other in April.
Now it's September.
He has to come today.
I am waiting.
I hate anticipation;
I have to be somewhere.
This store is a place to wait;
It is full of books.
I browsed some classics.
I read some in the book of quotes.
I lifted coffetable books.
I skimmed illustrated encyclopedia.
Still, there is no sign of him yet.
I stepped farther into the store.
I said, I hate anticipation.
I have to think of something at the moment.
I lifted a book of short stories,
and was absorbed tracing this line:
Do you know the real source of strength?
The kiss, the kiss alone!...
The kiss is only a preface, however...*
What a pleasant read, I admit.
And I smiled a bit.
Almost forgetting anticipation,
I lifted my head just in time for his kiss.
And he kissed me.
He kissed me with suddenness,
He kissed me with intensity.
I can feel it inside me.
This must be so:
He kissed me in the forehead
as if giving me the prize for anticipating;
I can accept that.
But why can such a kiss electrify even my big toe?
*Excerpt from “The Kiss,” a story by Guy Maupassant
This is a poem inspired after reading Delicacy.
*Photo taken from http://www.musee-rodin.fr/en/collections/sculptures/kiss