but is not a kiss a kind of touch, a kind one betwixt those touched by each other's mutual solace of closer, of lips parting a part of themselves, part hole, part whole again, lips as morning flowers arcing towards the sun, glistening dew beads as love's clear acne and the stickiness of stamen throbbing in defiance of the wind, the honey so thick it may clog the heart, that blind wrestle of vagrant tongues, the saliva soup in an emotional coup, therein lies the dark call of twisted sounds and clanking teeth, to swallow each other as some glorious reverse birth, is not a kiss a kind of touch?

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