stopping counting kisses
i’ve gotten to the point were i’ve stopped counting kisses on
my fingers like the multiplication tables and started wishing
that i’d have made out with fewer boys. if there is a quality
about women who choose their men sparingly, i have lost
it. i could’ve done without kissing so many men: i’d easily
give up one, five, or six. seven was a mistake that lasted
three months, but i can’t say i regret slipping my tongue in
and out of his mouth in dark rooms. from what i hear, he
feels the same way. i still hear from two: he sends me love
poems and asks if who i am with is treating me right. i
continue to wish i could press my lips again to those of
four—he’s that tall and tan. i’m half in love with eight and
it’s a new development. he’s two inches taller than seven
and in my opinion, that’s just two more inches to write love
poems to and lick with my eyes in the dark. “you’re pretty
good at this whole kissing thing,” nine sad to me as we laid
on his bed and “practice makes perfect,” i replied with a grin
before letting him move his mouth to mine again.
