The first time I kissed you
was in the bookstore
in the Religion section.

And there, with the arid smell
of the millions of pages and the soft sounds
of musical whispers that filtered
through the rows of shelves,
nothing could have prepared me.

None of the lush fiction, descriptive and rich;
No amount of information from the How-Tos;
No measure of flowing prose of the stacks of literature,
the chaste and witty Pride and Prejudice,
and its shamefully sensual neighbor, Lady Chatterly's Lover.

Nonfiction, boasting all its historic trysts and affairs,
glimmering with the gritty romantic haze of war and conflict,
gave me no comfort.
The Humor section, with all its amusing anecdotes,
the horrible first dates and bizarre sexual exploits,
couldn't prepare me,
And even in Romance,
the scantily clad women draped over
the conspicuously titled covers
seemed to sigh a breathy sigh of envy and longing.

So there, in Religion, I kissed you.
But it seemed fitting because it felt
like some kind of sacred rite to me,
kissing you
oh so softly.