In a dream I was a kiss:
not the lips, hesitantly
meeting wet warmth of the other
or the heads angled opposite
but fitting, harmoniously rocking,
or the hands, still part of this,
gently drawing on the back
at a blouse, soaking the submerged
heat of skin. Nor the participants,
nor their coursing blood and thoughts.
Nor the abandonment of time, nor the moment
of intermingling of exhaled breaths.
Just all of this.
I was the kiss.