I found a matted poster in the store–
some black and white blow-up of Paris
with two lovers kissing gently
under the Eiffel Tower, embracing each other
and I gasped,
then I cried with nostalgia
not for Paris
but for that kiss.
I know I am loved
but there is a minimal difference
between knowing that you are loved
and feeling loved–
Like a passionate kiss
can be deciphered from a normal peck
when the emotion is there
and you don’t want to let go of the lips
as knees go waggling,
the heart races,
and you find yourself lost and weak
at the simplest touch of flesh against flesh….
I wanted to fall helplessly in that kiss
and dive into the ecstasy of being wanted
engulfed in passion,
falling inside of another’s soul
where I could loose myself and not care
about the consequences of being a fool.
I wanted to be stared so lovingly
while forgetting the setting
of such an incredible city
because I would be the place to search and explore;
I would be that final destination.