To be Touched by Tender Lips

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Abstract

e speed of light. Gone the warm evening air, the cows across the meadow; this was not the age of hopes and fantasies; this was a raw, open, and honest inspiration, a one-chance trick, like taking a rabbit from the hat and no one quite understanding how it was done!Yes, it was like that, a brush of lips, like dew-laden lilac tips, sensual and wet and wanting. My lips faltered, shrank faintly, and then opened to accept this gift of sensual pleasure.The tearful tincture of memory replays in my mind that teenage kiss, almost precisely, as if the muse of memory likes to play with me.But seventeen has become seventy. Two people, not teenagers, caught in a moment’s ray of desire, a streak of aching tenderness.It is a cruelly precious memory that is unaware of old age; such a thing remains so sweet.I was born, I was raised, and I am loved. I’ve had a thousand electric butterflies settle on my lips. In so many years, I have been anointed time and time again by many moments of beauty’s tenderness.<h2 id="2772">Karen Schwartz, Na

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Still in my memory, that kiss.

Seventeen, the age of hopes and fantasies, my story might have begun then. But I’m not seventeen and have aged beyond hopes and fantasies, so why did this happen?

The memory muse that has touched my lips with hers, and through those lips, something electrical, something blue, and in that momentary touch of tongues, the poet in me was reawakened; the truly romantic, in love with ideal beauty.

At seventeen, I was a boy who held out for love, hope, and springtime, and each came slowly, like cows across a meadow, with the smell of milking in the air. That’s how it has always been for me: a life developing slowly, passions — deep passions never hurried or broken.

So, when the memory of the kiss came, it did so at the speed of light. Gone the warm evening air, the cows across the meadow; this was not the age of hopes and fantasies; this was a raw, open, and honest inspiration, a one-chance trick, like taking a rabbit from the hat and no one quite understanding how it was done!

Yes, it was like that, a brush of lips, like dew-laden lilac tips, sensual and wet and wanting. My lips faltered, shrank faintly, and then opened to accept this gift of sensual pleasure.

The tearful tincture of memory replays in my mind that teenage kiss, almost precisely, as if the muse of memory likes to play with me.

But seventeen has become seventy. Two people, not teenagers, caught in a moment’s ray of desire, a streak of aching tenderness.

It is a cruelly precious memory that is unaware of old age; such a thing remains so sweet.

I was born, I was raised, and I am loved. I’ve had a thousand electric butterflies settle on my lips. In so many years, I have been anointed time and time again by many moments of beauty’s tenderness.