It felt like a kiss
long before
it was a kiss.

He was talking but I couldn’t hear his words. I don’t think they were important words. He was just talking. We weren’t touching. He was several feet away. Just talking. I felt a kind of liquid warmth melting the walls of that part of me that someone once told me made me a vessel.

I don’t like that word: vessel.

I want to be a deep, dark magic cauldron where magic is made.

He was not handsome or sexy or beautiful. He was just a man. Talking.

A man of parts and invisible tentacles that reached deep inside of me and plucked me like a string instrument. A musician looking for that perfect chord.

I was mesmerised and curious and hot and rapidly filling up with need.

He played me.

And then he kissed me.

His lips hungrily claiming mine, even as I pulled him deep into the rich darkness of my cauldron.

He kissed me.

And together the softness of our lips. The hardness of our lips. The harshness of our breath. The softness of exploring fingertips.

All of that swirled and coalesced and we made magic.

He kissed me.

Happy International Kissing Day

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