Learning to kiss again

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I watched a movie on the flight home from Norway. Only one line stuck with me “we crap on the ones we love”. I don’t know what it takes, or how long, to pull away the crap and find the core of love underneath the pile we build. But I will keep digging, maybe for a lifetime.

Picture the two of us, Jacquelyn and I, sitting in a street café in Bergen. The rain falling softly behind us onto the coble streets. Our heads protected by the striped awning, pooled rainwater occasionally gushing off the cloth in torrents. The kids, no longer with us, banished towards gift stores. Our backs warmed by the sheep skin rugs strewn over the cold metal seats. Seated next to each other, our hands softly supporting each other’s, fingers resting on palms.

The rain fall brought a peace to the streets, a quiet to the air, a tranquility and solace to our private table. The others seated around us vanished into the background as our attention focused on each other’s presence. My hand gently stroked the tuft of hair that escaped from her pony tail. Silky smooth refusing to be controlled or restrained, arching up to the sky.

My fingers followed the line of her jaw from the delicate skin behind her ear to the soft peak of her chin. The hard pads of my fingertips, enlivened by the electric velvet beneath. As their journey ended my fingers rose to her lips then slid back across her cheek bone until her entire jaw was cradled in my palm.

Our heads drew towards each other, our eyes met monetarily before they closed. Our lips touched in the gentlest of breath like caresses, butterfly wings on a warm summer morn’. Lips parting momentarily then pushing forward. Ardently pressing soft lips against soft lips. Their cushioned pleasure growing like blooming roses, whose petals unfold revealing depth and mystery.

Eventually, a decade later, our lips pressure softens, we gently part. Our noses slide by each other, their skin caressing in Inuit-like passion. Our eyes meet again. Our palms and fingers press in lobster-like grip.

Love’s kiss relearned, another flame relights

My lifetime moves on, a layer of crap unpeeled.

A view down Hardangerfjord in southern Norway


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