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 pants tightens, and my thoughts run, and I realize I should've kissed you when I had the chance.
I want that moment never to be past like 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 my wish to kiss you when I had the chance,
whispered like a begger to a prince outside his palace: time looks up to the sky, purses his lips, and hears what I pronounce
but pays it little mind. If he would just turn 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.