became poetry
highest communication
untranslatable
Adapted from an essay with these lines.
Do you remember the best kiss of your life?
I imagine that you do.
It’s an evocative question?
The essay ends with this line.
Kissing at its best becomes a fluency, a poetry; the highest form of communication, a physical language.
The best kiss of my life?
I don’t even want to share it.
It was a conversation, almost.
And, in this instance, untranslatable.
Almost poetry on its own.
An Ode to the End of Covid maybe.
(the essay is I don’t know whose idea it was to smoosh our faces together, but I could kiss them by Hannah Jane Parkinson, under the heading, The Joy of Small Things.)
No Haiku For You 