Each kiss lifts the faded ink
of the carbon copy kiss
that came before.

You can scoff,
but it was you who taught me,
that day when
I licked behind your teeth
and you raised a slender hand
to brush my fringe from my eyes.
I don’t have a fringe.

But that made me sit up and notice,
and that afternoon in the
echoing lecture hall
your strawberry gloss
tasted like my first kiss with
her.
I lifted a hand to loosen your loose bun.
You don’t wear your hair up.

I never would have guessed
that I would want
your kiss more than any other,
that I would welcome
stroking the scar on your cheekbone
and your silky black hair.

But we’ll be together this evening,
so bring your army of ghosts
and we can lay down arms
and present our pasts,
wrap them in a white banner
and kiss like it’s something new.