We kissed beneath the pine tree’s slender boughs,
we kissed in fields of freshly fallen snow.
When we kissed you swore you didn’t know how
those scarlet marks got on my neck, but you know.
We kissed eyes shut, palms damp, your freckled back
pressed flat against the closet door. We kissed
on the floor, lost amid the library stacks’
dim dust. We kissed in the station and missed
the late train, what a shame. We kissed late-Spring
under star-specked skies in the steaming rain.
The last time we kissed, you couldn’t explain
what changed between us, like new snow melting
overnight. What more to say? That was before.
That was years ago. We don’t kiss anymore.
~ Jonathan Wood
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bravo.
That’s fun, Jonathan. I didn’t quite believe in the boughs and the snow, but the closet door felt suddenly real. That line brought the poem to life, then took it right to the floor. The palms we feel, the door we feel. The freckled back is a great touch, but hard to see with eyes closed.