The Kiss

I don’t know where we’ll meet—
a knock on my door?
A stumble on the morning bus?
Perhaps he’ll arrive like a whisper,
too soft to notice at first.
God, I hope not the GP surgery.
Not something that clinical.
Not something that sterile.
This was always meant to burn.

When he finds me,
I won’t trust the tilt in his smile,
the too-keen light in his eyes.
He’ll laugh like he knows something,
and I’ll fold my arms tight.
Platonic. We agreed.
It’s all platonic—until it isn’t.

We circle,
the way storms do before they touch land.
He keeps his distance,
but not too much.
Finds reasons to stay close,
makes silence feel like a conversation
I never knew I was craving.

And then it happens—
some late hour,
in some forgotten corner,
walls pressing in just enough
that I can’t look away.

He says my name.
Just my name.
And I answer
by not speaking.

The space between us folds.

His hand finds my jaw
like it was always supposed to.
No surprise in the kiss—
only inevitability.
Only everything that came before it
falling into place.

And in that single touch,
my whole resistance crumbles—
like a house made of paper
meeting fire.

It’s not just lips—
it’s a question asked
and finally answered.
It’s years of wondering
reduced to breath.

And that kiss—
God, that kiss—
is a thousand words
we never said
but always meant.

It seals the deal,
not for now,
not for next week,
but for everything that comes
in all the days after.

An eternity more.