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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: December 03, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: December 03, 2013



Elaine is ready for bed,

nightgown, flowery,

blue, covers from wrists

to ankles. Warming against


the room's chill. She looks

at herself in the mirror. Her

reflection peers back. Eyes

stare, mouth closed. Her


sister sleeps in the other bed,

sounds away in dreamland.

She casts a look at her in

the mirror, head visible, hair,


shoulders blanket covered.

She said nothing to others

about the boy John at school

and the lunchtime kiss, said


nothing over dinner a few

hours ago, she sat and

listened and hoped no one

asked her a question. None did.


Her sister smirked about

Elaine hugging the pillow

on her bed before dinner,

but nothing was said just


looks and raised eyebrows.

Every time she put the fork

to her lips, during the meal,

she thought of him and him


kissing her. Lips to lips.

Him holding her arm.

Steadying, keeping her

standing. First time kiss,


no one else. Not likely to be,

she thinks, wondering what

made him kiss her, then

and there. What about


the next day at school?

Will he kiss her again?

Was it a mistake? A joke?

She has brushed her teeth,


brushed aspects of him

away, some small particles

of him in the kiss on lips,

brushed away, down


the sink. She looks

frumpish; the glasses

make her look larger,

her nose seems flatter


as if squashed. She takes

them off, lays them

on the dressing table.

Now she can only see


a blurry shape. She gets

up, and turns out the light,

and gets into bed, pulls

the blankets up to her


chin and lays there in

the semi-dark, wondering

about the next day, what

he will say or do or want


to do or say. In the semi-dark

she can see the outline

of her sister sleeping.

Sleep sounds, breathing,


shadows on the wall from

the moon's touch and go.

She imagines him holding

her, his hand on her arm,


not tight or gripping just

holding, then the kiss.

Lips just touching, not

pushing or pressing, but


softly touching, snowflake

touching, feather falling

touching. She makes a

gentle lips kissing sound.


It echoes slightly around

the room. She licks her lips.

Lips licked, lips kissing.

It seemed her body had


expected it, even if she

hadn't, the movement of

heart, and sensation of

letting go, as if she'd wet


herself, as if something

had opened her up and

left her wide open so that

all and everything could


enter for that moment of

the kiss. She wanted that

again. Wanted it back.

The feelings, the simple


undoneness, abandonment

of self and embrace of

another. Words seem to

escape from her mouth


in the semi-dark; thoughts

run riot; anarchy runs

through veins and arteries.

She bites her tongue, keeps


it still. She senses her fingers

run down her leg, back up

and down again. Would he

have done that? Would he?


He kisses; he holds. Past

tense. Kissed. Held. When

he kissed her, her breasts

tingled. Tingled like small


bells in a draught. She sighs.

Licks her lips. She embraces

her body, her fingers touch

her spine. He said something


about butterflies or was it birds?

She can't remember now.

Just remembers him kissing.

Who kisses whom? Does he


kiss her or does she kiss him?

Or does neither kiss again

and leave it at that. A mistake.

A joke. Seemed real, she thinks,


turning over, pulling the blanket

tighter, pretending its he pulling

and tucking her in and kissing

her cheek and saying sleep well.


He had said nothing to her on

the school bus home. He sat on

one side of the bus and she sat

on the other. Neither talked


or looked(although she did

now and then, just to make sure).

He sat there in his seat, gazing

out the window, as if she'd not


got on and was sitting not far

from him. A mistake. No more

kisses. Just the one lone kiss.

When he held her to kiss, he


held her close. Pressing against

her, gently, not hard or pressing,

not that sort of thing. Had his

hand touched her back? she


can't recall. Just there, she says,

feeling with her own fingers,

where he may have touched.

She presses. There, yes, there.


Hard to imagine. So much going

on in her brain at the time, so

much information zipping

through her nerves, sensations


alive and on fire. She must sleep.

Must sleep. All tomorrow's

happenings must wait and see.

She shuts her eyes. Breathes in

deep. Time for rest, time for sleep.



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