Kiss. Sometimes the word is onomatopoeia; echoes of the syllables are quick, pursed and slippery when wet. May’s kisses are not wet. I don’t like the onomatopoeia kiss; I want meat and skin in the way I put my lips on someone else’s. I’m very particular about my kissing.

Sometimes we start kissing and it’s easy; our lips touch and the day goes on. But then, sometimes we kiss, our lips touch, and everything is rearranged. The kiss takes over; it demands we stop and stay.

Sometimes kissing is soft and safe. Sometimes it’s hard, sharp, rife with teeth and tension

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