…morning, after morning,
sun is burning, banished, clouded,
cold in winter, ice wrapped round branches,
shielded from spilling seed, numbed:
the numbing of heat –
kissing me like you mean it,
when you don’t –
as frost lines our windows, drafts slip underfoot,
bodies cooling, motion less certain,
a faded blue eye, looking west across fallow fields,
broken buildings.
Writer Moe 
Beautiful.
Thank you. This began as a simple piece about the first kiss. And then it became a meditation on desire, life, the lust for creation. Now, it’s telling me the story of a life. Of lives. Funny. It’s more like channeling than anything now. It’s a new sensation.