I wish I’d kissed you when I had the chance.Your face hovering there, so near to mine,your mouth pursed—what word was it you pronounced?
When I think about you, something in my pantstightens, and my thoughts run, and I realizeI should’ve kissed you when I had the chance.
I want that moment never to be pastlike Keats’s lovers on the grecian urn:his mouth pursed, her figure turned to pronounce
her hips in ways that are not feminist.But time strolls mildly on, not glancing at mywish to kiss you when I had the chance,
whispered like a beggar to a princeoutside his palace: time looks up to the sky,purses his lips, and hears what I pronounce
but pays it little mind. If he would justturn back, bend down, and follow my design,I would have kissed you when I had the chance,as your mouth pursed and you pronounced goodbye.