"A Kiss Made of Words"

I. The First Whisper

Before your voice,

I only knew silence in crowded rooms,

Pages without punctuation,

Songs that forgot how to end.

Then —

your eyes met mine like an unfinished sentence

finally found its period.

And in that pause,

my soul exhaled.

I didn’t need to touch your hand

to know the warmth of you.

Your hello brushed across my skin

like the first word in a favorite book.

II. Ink Between Us

You never kissed me.

Not in the way the world measures kisses —

with mouths and motion,

with breath stolen in shadows.

But in verses,

you pressed your lips to my memory.

You traced my fears with metaphors,

drew courage from me

in the shape of similes and sighs.

When you called me

“the reason dusk blushes,”

my spine stood straighter.

When you wrote,

“your silence hums louder than music,”

I listened to myself,

maybe for the first time.

III. The Language of Almost

There were no stolen nights,

no bruised sheets or jealous clocks.

We lived in the hourglass of maybe.

But oh—how the sand glowed

when we spoke.

You gave me lines like lifeboats

when the sea in my chest was drowning.

You whispered poems in half-sentences,

and still, I understood

every syllable your heart couldn’t spell.

“Don't fall in love with me,”

you wrote once.

I didn’t.

I fell through you —

like a letter through paper,

a shadow through flame.

IV. Where Mouths Could Not Go

Some kisses live in silence.

In the space between

"goodnight" and "goodbye."

In the pauses after

"tell me how your day was."

Our lips were punctuation.

But our words—

they were whole worlds.

You made metaphors into music.

I turned longing into letters.

Together, we built cathedrals of feeling

from scraps of late-night texts,

from unsent paragraphs,

from ellipses that meant

I’m still here.

V. The Distance Between Pages

I wrote you on rainy afternoons,

in notebooks that smelled of coffee and ache.

You sent me verses tucked in emails,

with timestamps like time zones

that kept us apart

but dreaming.

You never held me,

but you folded my sadness

into origami wings.

You never saw my tears,

but you rhymed with them

perfectly.

VI. Unkissed but Not Unloved

A kiss made of words

stays longer than a body.

It lingers like ink in the creases of a journal,

like breath on a mirror,

like that one line of a song

that never fails to break you.

You were not a chapter.

You were the margin notes

no one else will ever read.

VII. Years Later, Still a Poem

They ask if we were ever together.

I smile,

thinking of stardust typed on blue screens,

of hearts folded into envelopes,

of love without lips,

of a kiss made only of words.

No, I say.

We were never together.

But we were something

books don’t have names for.

VIII. The Final Verse

Now I walk alone,

but your syllables still echo

in the corners of my breath.

And when I write,

the ink remembers you.

My vowels lean toward your voice.

My metaphors still wear your fingerprints.

Because what we shared

wasn't a kiss

measured in mouths —

but in meaning.

In the quiet between pages,

I still feel it:

The weight

of a kiss

made

of words.

IX. Echoes in Empty Rooms

There are still rooms

where your words live.

They hang in the air like perfume,

invisible but unforgettable.

Sometimes I speak aloud to no one,

just to hear the echo

of how I once sounded

when I was loved

by someone who didn’t need to touch me

to make me feel touched.

I open old notebooks

and find you there,

in ink-stained corners,

half-finished thoughts,

and circled phrases I was too afraid to send.

You were always better at ending things

with grace.

I always left things

unfinished.

X. Ghost Letters

I wonder if you kept any of it —

the poems,

the messages at 2 a.m.,

the voice memos where I read to you

just to hear your stillness

on the other side.

Maybe they’re buried in folders

on a forgotten phone,

maybe you deleted them

like erasing a chalkboard love story.

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

Even the things we never said

are still written

somewhere in me.

XI. Love in Translation

You taught me

that love doesn’t need a stage.

It can bloom in inboxes,

in the spaces between read receipts,

in the rhythm of typing dots

that blink and vanish

before truth can be sent.

We translated ourselves

into sentences.

And every time we misunderstood,

we tried again —

not with louder voices,

but with gentler ones.

I called that love.

Still do.

XII. The Soft Goodbye

We never said goodbye

like lovers do in films.

No slammed doors,

no final kiss under rain.

Just a pause

that stretched too long,

a reply that never came,

a sentence left without a period.

But that’s the thing about our love —

it never needed to end loudly.

It was quiet from the start,

soft as snowfall

on a city that never expected

to feel again.

XIII. Return to the Page

Even now,

when I write,

you arrive.

Not as a ghost —

but as rhythm.

As metaphor.

As that one perfect word

that only ever belonged to you.

You’ve become

the fingerprint in my voice,

the gravity in my verse,

the pulse behind the poetry

they say feels too alive

to be fiction.

XIV. Not All Love Needs to Touch

Sometimes,

I wonder how many others

have been kissed

like this —

by someone who never held them,

but left their soul bruised

with tenderness anyway.

How many hearts are walking archives

of unspoken goodbyes?

How many people still carry poems

in their chests

that only one person

will ever understand?

I hope they know—

it was still love.

Even if it never had lips.

XV. Final Stanza

If I could send this to you,

I’d write it with quiet hands,

no expectation of return.

Just as I did all those years ago.

I’d say:

I remember

the way you made silence feel sacred.

I remember

that not all love is meant to last —

some is meant to transform.

And I remember

that I was kissed once,