What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?
First love, with its frantic haughty imagination, swings its object clear of the everyday, over the rut of living, making him all looks, silences, gestures, attitudes, a burning phrase with no context.
What is a kiss? Why this, as some approve: the sure, sweet cement, glue, and lime of love.
Oh, they loved dearly: their souls kissed, they kissed with their eyes, they were both but one single kiss.
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