It was the first time I French-kissed a girl:
the wet parting of lips, tentative push
and probe; the soft-strong slide of flesh. The rush
of electricity made my toes curl
and cramp. I was surprised there was no taste
except her breath, so hot and slightly sweet,
flavored with her lip gloss. It was all heat
and pressure, arms tangled in teenage haste
to rush after pleasure. And such a shock,
to find myself suddenly not alone
in my body--sharing my mouth and tongue,
my inner space--and all sensation locked
in touch and smell, and hearing myself moan,
so happy to be clean, and loved, and young.
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