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.