Life is an onion. I never understood that.
Pity that I now quite understand it at 21.

A closet of words.

Rickety-wooden-termite-ridden-dusty-closet. Your silken black hair against pure white sheets. Morning whispers from the child in you. There are very few things here that I will take back with me.

That dreamcatcher by the door should stay. How do you name a colour that has travelled through time, dirt and reason? Do you code it? Dirt has a colour, so does time and reason. Spectrums with dog tags. Tie the rainbow down now. My dreamcatcher still has your wishes in it, leashed and hopeful.

A closet of words can lead to the birth of a whole new social system. Some words must have clustered up into sentences. Small short strong ones and lengthy haughty boring ones. Then there are the phrases that are high up the food-chain because they hide a lot more than they reveal. Nature of mankind I think, has seeped into the language on his tongue. Language and its artificial intelligence; that closet is just bursting at the seams. You stored your words in there too, didn't you?

The sun spills across clean window sills, liquid wood helping them find their way to me. You liked it all clean before you left, sweeping dust into spaces between wood and concrete. Think I will sit here a while. I can still smell the dust. This cold white couch is strangely inviting and the closet still mumbles in its sleep.

I am just a visitor in our home anyway.

Osculation.

Science has a way of justifying a kiss. A kiss, the act of kissing, a close contact, a contact between curves or surfaces, at which point they have a common tangent.

A common tangent; does math recognize the skin? The epidermis regenerates for a living and the tangent would have to keep recognizing new points of contact by the minute. Three million longing cells along every square inch and I keep wondering how people have one-night-stands.

A flavour in between every cell.

When your kiss floods my mouth, I think of discovery. I think of a million tangents and a million drops of sex in my mouth. I think of a yellow sky and a white sun and your words educating my skin. Kiss me by the grandfather clock in the basement, I want to feel time grow jealous.

Does the tide rise when we kiss by the beach?

32 feet of nerves for every square inch of the skin and you want me to just stay the night. Make the math in your head and be kind to my science of the heart. I am inquisitive by skin and my nature will rest by your side as I resort to uncovering you everyday.

Think about the grooves and little siths of space where we can lock in like puzzle pieces. Kiss me starved and plagued. Your skin is but another world and I want that pink cabin by the beach. I want us to live there, in your surge and fall, in your passion for sex and love. I want us to sleep by your cold night and wake up by your morning coffee. I want to sit by your tidal changes and watch your coast change. The reak of your sands can soak into my skin and I can stay a beach mongrel for a long time to come.

Kiss me in the dark; I do not want sense anything less. Three million cells every square inch and science can only call it osculation.

Even science longs to justify your kiss.