Our kisses are those of children,

Warm, and sweet, and innocent.

Yet they express a trusting love so deep, so delicate,

Its poignancy might be destroyed by cruder passions,

Lost in the seething selfishness of lust.

But there is the paradox.

How do I rein my strong desire to give all that is me?

To draw back the shutters of my soul

That you might gaze within

And see yourself mirrored in every atom of my being.

And what of the hormones that hasten my heartbeat,

And send incongruous messages of arousal

That serves no useful purpose.

I will curb their proud pretensions

Lest they should raise a screen of fantasy

To obscure my view of your essential self.

Yes, let our kisses still remain so chaste

That I shall not deceive myself with longing,

And fail to see you truly as you are.

But if, just once, your lips should change their message,

And speak of Passion where they spoke of Trust

I will be Lost, my love, to the restraints of Reason

And fashion a fairy-tale ending to real

H. St.Vincent Beechey. 1988.