First Kiss of Anastasia

The teabag of sun gets dipped in the ocean. Sometimes I think that other people are there for us to learn the appreciation of ourselves. Fire spills in echoes of light. This is the moment of my life where I still believe I’m in danger and consider myself so isolated as to actually think there’s such things as eyes. Hers dive somewhere down my face and sometimes back up and right back down again. I notice I like it between the beats. That’s what they call the flow state then. The wind exhales along with me. Dahlia. Blue girl. Iwillimmidan. Why do I only ever like girls or boys who like girls that only ever liked boys? She stands way too close. We realize that. She has that Cleopatra eyeliner that suits only her. And an unfavorite mascara. She looks at me; her eyes like two lychees. Cot really captured it in the Springtime, didn’t he? Fireflies shimmer in the meadows shorn of wheat. Emeralds on topaz heaths. Our smiles fade an octave. We will kiss. We didn’t know so far. My hands hug a bookset on my stomach; she touches them softly and pushes open. They sprint sideways and immobilize sharp. «Right», escapes out of me. Obedient queen’s eyes. I don’t know why. We get closer, her perfumes violent. Patchouli and opoponax. I don’t know how much of it is her. Pierces through the bed of my lungs into the heart. Spills all kinds of places. Butterflies clang against my belly and resonate through my spine. I freeze. My pulse too. We meet. Her kiss is chilling, first. Calm, cool. Quaver. I feel mint and honey. Her lips feel like August sounds at sunset. I thaw. There’s something exotic about her, in a sense of the word which disappeared along with my childhood before I had a chance to use it. She’s my home that melts in my hands as I mature. All the other girls I ever brought over were strangers – she is myself. I don’t believe in mirrors anymore. I dropped my books. The floral foam covers the fields. Some pop already. Teach me. I’ve never. She might’ve. I’m hopeless. I learn with you. Mimes that mastered the eavesdropping shadows. A cicada voyeur lets us know. That undernose valley, it’s called filtrum by the way, is very pronounced in her. Our lip gloss glues us closer. I speak tongues but this is its own thing. She stops to see where I’m at. I won’t move. My hand goes forward and reassures her cheek or chin I don’t know; barely a fingernail. Shudder, first her then me. Please, no more; come back? She’s responsive to my answers. A hand on my waist, the other against an elbow, then one of mine at her collarbone. She listens. I hear with eyes sealed. Sun whispers something through the moon but I can’t see. First time I sink into something other than thoughts. I must be red along with the tea of ocean. Who knew people could dye for life. The sunflower of stars turns our way. It’s all too long and too short at the same time. Goddamn, I have no time for this, I want to be here forever. I’m not so sure there’s death anymore. Makes you question all kinds of things. I do not remember our names. I do not remember how old we are. All the starfruits I haven’t plucked are my parents now. All that I won’t cry out I’ll leak out during the noisiest poems. I want to get scarred with her taste. I want to get a tattoo of her smell. Made from the ink of her morning yawns and midnight sighs. All over, my breath too. Breathe girl. At least once. I let a string of air between us; she quickly snaps it. Pulls me closer and grabs me I don’t even know where anymore. The mellifluous voice of silence. She stops again, luring my annoyance. I can’t open my eyes. Pray a vicious moan. Please? The most unsure six seconds of my life. I skim over her with frenzy to come back. Her fingers lock seamlessly between my ribs. My heart wouldn’t run away anyways. No succubus could do that. I have never met anyone who would invite me into oblivion. I think angels have put something on my back there, or it might’ve been the feather of her touch. «Anastasia?» «Yes.» «I like you, you know that?» «No. Yes», I say stuff only when she does first now. If you were a sculptor I’d let you in my memories to do as you please. Then. She bites me. Think of a ripe strawberry. Never before, and she actually bites me. I cannot away with this one. This is, I mean. There’s sparks. Woolen. Soon I do too. I swear there are novas somewhere. And somewhere amidst that oceanic sensitivity I must’ve realized all the thinking about knives and blades and all the deadly tools during depressions is just our world’s metaphor for mind’s sharp thoughts. Even everything with a kiss. She’s a metaphor of me now. Rhythm begins, you see. Nothing makes sense in the present. If you zoom out into the future you see what really happened. There’s relations that start with a kiss. There’s ones that start in bed. Some start with the words. Or a word. Some of them start because they have to. Some of them never start and that one look holds more than all the years we’ve shared with others. We learn how not to wish for those to have been. I fall back to sleep into consciousness. The dew of sweat takes me back to being a mammal now. I might have had legs this whole time, I don’t know. I don’t know anything now. ‹Now›, funny. I hope I’m not asked things today. Our skins separate. I miss and need and crave and long for you already please stay. Then, for a brief second, I am aware of the fact that life is just a simile. You comprehend a part of the true reality through it. That’s why you can learn it only once. Death too. The eternal ephemerality of the entelechers. Every apocalypse is most subtle. I think all this only right after. My lips are sticky with honey. Open your eyes now. I will. One moment. I can hear the cherry blossoms shake off the history in fuchsia. Suddenly I feel very ancient. An evanescent rose of the damascene soil. I realize that ‹I› and ‹You› are illusions and that my whole life, past and future, exists only to be juxtaposed against this moment right now. Make it meaningful while you are. Ready? See now. We are the amnesias of paradise.