What made us fight? What "truth" was so important?

Or were we each holding our breath,

When you left, in your mind, had it all been,

Did you ever tell your new lover about that stolen night:

What was it that stranger saw about us—

Why didn't you tell him the Truth:

When you sent all those words of passion and devotion;

Words you shared when a ring and a promise kept you from sharing more;

I still want to believe I was more to you than some fantasy of escape.

Years later, you did come briefly back to my arms,

And you wanted nothing more than a companion, a playmate.

I let go of my deepest desire,

Now… about that kiss… I know, you still know which kiss.

Was it a dare? Was it a challenge?

You have said you never had one as passionate before, or since.

Don’t mis-understand,

I needed to leave you breathless, needed you to need me—my heart, my soul.

I needed you to see—moonbeams and faerie-dust.

I had no doubt it had to be more than a kiss:

It had to be as tender as a doe nuzzling her new-born fawn,

The kiss itself started behind your neck,

Working my way along with a hunger—both tender and fierce.

It was a thing I conjured; shaped only that one singular time—

It was crafted; it was performed;

You must know—it was never a lie;

It was the best I could do to give you a taste of something

The true passion inside of me is as cautious as it is powerful.

—between two...

But,

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

So, I suppose,
      I - have never had, even one, truly, passionate kiss ...