Michael K. White
the perfect kiss
i asked for this stone from your garden,
smooth blood red riven with cracks and scars.
it was too hard and cold
in the mid morning sun.
you took it and wiped off the dirt
and then handed it back smiling and
it felt good in my hand
like your fingers around mine.
when i asked you for it,
the sun was shining in your eyes and
you said of course,
like giving away red stones from your garden
was the easiest thing
in the world.
i miss writing poems with you
our special dialogue
full of mysteries and rooms with closed doors
together we walked down a sidewalk of flowers
collecting skies and wind
and our poems like bright sweet candy
wrapped in neon colors
surprising and delicious
secret and overt
like footprints disappearing in the middle of the snow.