Kissing you is so fresh that cliches can’t do it justice,
but I don’t know how else to phrase it just yet,
I don’t think a language can do it any favours,
when no one’s mastered how to translate what is technically a private story told only in tongues.
I envy the grapes that stain your lips as the fruit of your efforts to appear brave slip off your tongue intoxicatingly,
in a way only I’m lucky enough to get tanked off of.
I’m a lightweight for your punch-drunk kisses because I’ve not yet had the opportunity to build up an intolerance, but if I’m honest,
I hope I never become desensitized to the way your lips feel against mine.
I’m jealous of your landline and the way your well-rounded voice reverberates through it daily, carried overhead through blue wires that span the length of the country to reach my ears,
and I relate to the way the receiver clicks after your sweet little goodbye, just like the way you make my life click into place.