The Moment The Possible Will Grow From

[The Kiss by Auguste Rodin]

This is not possible. This moment turns away from itself and all it could entail. You leave the possibility of a kiss damp on my lips; shake your head and walk away, leaving me alone with the night. I turn to look at the stars feeling them closer than you are to me, until, out of my sight I feel you hesitate, just as you are about to return to the crowded party. Still without seeing you I feel your head as it turns, seemingly beyond your volition to control.

I wait, not daring to look as I feel your presence growing closer to me, an extra touch of heat on an already too-warm summer evening. I turn as you hand reaches up to draw my face back to yours. This time there is no shy hesitation of a kiss, but a full deep meeting. I can taste the wine on your tongue and feel the urgency within you as your press yourself hard against me and the sudden cool dampness as the glass you still hold in your one hand spills wine over my wrist.

You suddenly break off the kiss as my reflex response pulls me away slightly. I mutter something about the wine on my hand; you smile; now knowing I was not pulling away from you. You take my hand up to your mouth and I watch as your tongue laps up the spilt wine from my skin. It is then that we both know that this is the moment that the possible will grow from.