My mouth is dry. I have just walked from Hotel de Ville.
Someone once told me that kissing originated from animals passing food to their young,
Dribbling mashed up food-spit into poised gasping mouths,
Survival became indulgence,
Regurgitation became reciprocated.
This kiss emerges from a block of marble.
A kiss from hell.
The key moment, the mouth, is obscured from my view by her arm. Private.
I have to crouch down to see the kiss, looking up through the gap between their torsos.
Neither carved nor pronounced lips gently pressing on one another.
Not individual lips, but a place where the stone is continuous.
Left Joined. Fused. Locked. Forever… Ugly?
Mouth to mouth.
Stone to stone.
Am I looking at marble? Am I looking at marble imitating flesh? Am I looking at soft flesh? Flesh on flesh?
Chisels pronounce bodies, with grasping mouths and toes that slip back into stone.
New love starts to lose its grip.
I catch a glimpse!
Still the moment is obscured by pressed nose and feminine cheek.
But I feel rejected and isolated
‘Cause I seek a kiss that can’t be located
But my life is incomplete and I’m so blue
‘Cause I can’t get next to you (Babe).