The Last Kiss

I have never been able to understand how such a thing can happen. And I am so very sorry–whenever I hear about it. My sweetheart and I love each other so very much. And we have for the better part of a century. And in many ways, we seem just the same. Love at first sight, and second, and third… I know it is not this way for everyone. I understand it intellectually. I suppose… I suppose I wonder… when it is as you describe, does one have a sense of it beforehand? Is there a peculiar sense… a vague sense of something missing?

I am very much afraid to read more, because I feel from the titles I see, that it may all be too sad for me to bear. Still I follow because… On wordpress, that’s what we do for one another. I’ve thought and written extensively upon it. It spans all ideologies, this support. I follow anyone’s blog–with a couple of caveats. It has to be a real blog, not just a few posts as a device to boost traffic to some other site; and it must not be an aggregation site, or magazine site. I don’t participate in such things, whether involving poetry or not. Nor do I participate in anything having to do with awards of any kind. When I receive them or nominations for them, I politely decline them. But apart from that I follow everyone.

And it can be remarkable how someone with whom I have very little, or perhaps, nothing in common, will spark some curiosity, make me laugh or provoke a thought or two. I normally wouldn’t read a post like this in detali, but something about the title and the photograph caught my eye. I felt it warranted some attention. But I do not think I can read much of this kind of post. When one gets to be my age, one likes to laugh especially, I think. My dearest Mrs. Emeron and I do laugh a great deal. For that reason, I have stopped watching television news, as of a few years ago, I believe. Things do still filter down by osmosis, but I don’t seek them out. My blood pressure is normal–the lowest its been in decades without a bit of pharmaceutical help. Those who know me may credit my state of fitness, which has been increasing regularly with due diligence; but I would credit at least half of that with my lack of interest in current events.

Deliberate Donkey

The last time he kissed me was at the end of our marriage ceremony. You may kiss the bride. April 13, 2007. After over five years, I feel like I’ve never been kissed.

There were no good-night kisses. There were no good-morning kisses. No I-love-you kisses. No passionate kisses. No make-out sessions. And, no, you don’t have to kiss to have sex.

A kiss. The elusive kiss seems now more intimate than any other physical connection between two people.

I longed for his kiss. I noticed he never kissed me. If we could, if he could, if I could, would we find our happily ever after?

The answer is no. There was no love, and without love a kiss is as meaningless as the paper plate holding the meal. Our marriage was a paper plate.

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2 responses to “The Last Kiss

  1. Thank you for sharing this and your thoughts with your readers. It is a tough post, and mine is a tough blog.
    I did have a sense of it before hand. I knew I was not in love when I got married. I allowed ignorance and circumstance to dictate my judgement, and I ignored my gut.
    Again, thank you.
    I do also appreciate the insight about the title and photograph being the draw for your attention.

    Like

    • Thank you very much; though, I am afraid that due in large part to the fact that I am a sonnet writer, I do not have so very many readers! I dearly wish your life and times to improve greatly–and to become joyous–as, from your introduction one might perceive them to have done (or at least seeming as though they are in the process of doing.)

      Like

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