There is always the last kiss
The final parting,
Already distant, the body cold;
The ‘Palais’ lights have dimmed.
He would have held her close
Less nimble than his brothers,
But ever smiling; more verbose.
His brown eyes steady and warm,
Gaze through wistful clouds
Of cigarette smoke.
She would glide effortlessly,
Lead him through the more complex moves,
Discreetly push the chairs aside,
Through the evenings slow eclipse
The one long, lingering kiss.
She would feel the contours of his shoulders
His strong forearms,
Note the confidence in his slow smile.
Weeks later they would slip
Between cool linen sheets,
Exploring for the first time
The flesh that would soon be wholly known,
His scent as familiar as her own.
For now they stand in silence
As the streamers begin to fall
And factory hooters blast away the old year.
They gaze curiously
Into each others eyes, wondering what to wish for,
From the other side of Paradise.
John Stocks is a widely published and