June 4, 2020

The kind of Kiss that Heals Old Wounds. {Poem}


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There is a certain sense of hope that people and memories bring to life amid soul-searching.

That midnight walk, vulnerable conversations, deep kisses, pure smiles, an orgasmic touch, a familiar hug, tears, guilt—emotions might change but living in the present has its perks. We glorify them in our deepest fantasies because at some moment they would have helped us become a better version of ourselves.  

Sometimes I wonder what happened to those restless heroines who dared to unmask it all?  Collecting lovers like postcards, switching careers to learn and unlearn, moving constantly, accepting their flaws, and dancing with the demons.

And I was no exception, I’ve always loved the sparks of anything slightly dark enough to feed my fantasies. A series of addictive behaviours followed me everywhere I went until my heart couldn’t collect any more for a while.

Life through the ashes of desire and ambition, I sat down to introspect. I lived for the spontaneity of this life, but what was I looking for? To find myself, I had to heal my wounds, forgive, and surrender.

So I wrote a poem to cherish some moments frozen in time without wanting to forget them.

Was it the last time they saw each other?

Two doomed beings and their sensual emotion.
A secret of the minds moving beyond the heat in their bodies.
Years might fade away memories of insatiable nights and thirsty attraction.
She smiled at the loss of sanity, grieving through actions of consolation.
He mumbled through her coldness seeking the company of escape and guilt.
They buried it deep for the sake of circumstances.

Yet it couldn’t be released fully from their hearts.
Some nights he thought about her.
About those patterns of her touch, created on his praline-hued body.
Two rugged bodies warmed by the nuances of the world, yet who could fulfill them?
She was soaked in his mumbles, worshipping her as his goddess.
Lips escaped into spaces of sweetness and sorrow, was it a goodbye kiss?
It was an eclipse of fate, where patterns would be washed away.

An irony of hope gleamed through their lives, dancing with vibrations of the unknown.
Her juicy wilderness could never be explored in a few nights.
He was aloof in his delusion to feel the smile of illusioned youth.
When everything failed, they still remembered those hours of shared moans.
Hidden away in the closet of utopia.
Those memories still reigned freely.
These remnants now lie by the hearth in the form of incomplete kisses and silent vows.
Because when bodies age and desire stays, the touch of the new is still not enough.
But when kisses of time heal wounds, the touch of the new is welcome.


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Ann Loraine  |  Contribution: 2,565

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