Sweet Kiss

I collaged/wrote this last year instead of working on my NaNoWriMo story. Kinda like the way I’m writing and republishing this entry instead of doing chores. Well, until a minute from now.

Well, it would eventually be a kiss.
It would be a kiss eventually.

I’m done with my NaNo words for the day (although I’m still going to write again later), and feel cocky enough about my word count to write something unrelated, a little something to go with the above collage, something that’s a very big part of my thoughts regarding a certain shrunken man.

Kissing is magical, but I think I prefer doing it myself rather than watching other people do it. Yet… there are a few movie kisses I have rated Spectacular, Heart-stopping Exchanges of Sacred Bodily Fluids, and a few collage kisses that have the same effect. I hereby thank Theth and trinket999 for their tremendous contribution in the field of romantic kissing in collages.

The above collage is not my first official kiss image since their lips aren’t touching, but I can imagine what’s about to happen, I can see the scene in my head, so the impact is delicious enough to have provoked me to put it together.

None of this is new, but I think it gets lost in the sea of Topics More Often Mentioned. Still, there’s nothing novel about their story. She loves him, and he loves her. In the beginning, his arms wrap around her delicate shape, and her arms feel the strength of his shoulders or his waist. Not a perfect waist, but it’s the only waist she loves near hers.

They look into their eyes, too entranced to smile in any other way but foolishly, and their lips come together. They each feel thunder and lightning inside their heads, but in his, it only gets louder and brighter. Her lips swell in his mouth, and the thought of her blood rushing to them makes him melt with greater passion.

It’s then that I love to imagine he realizes it isn’t blood that engorges his lovely lady’s mouth. It’s that he’s shrinking. He opens his eyes and looks at her with shock (if it’s his first time), or with passionate amusement (if it’s happened many times before). He can still see himself in the mirror of her eyes, but he’s getting smaller, smaller, until his lips are forced to abandon hers, his arms are too short to reach her shoulders, his head leans against the softness of her abdomen, and his legs feel the rushing coolness of the room, now that his pants have become too big to stay up.

Or maybe it’s his kiss that grows her, and the more he touches her with his lips, the taller she becomes. Maybe that night he never gets tired of kissing her, until the point comes where he finds himself hugging the wall of her pinkie toe’s tip, rounded and textured with the horizontal, parallel grooves and ridges of its print, all gently curved and pronounced enough to let him climb them like the rungs of a ladder, so he can climb her toe and lie on the shining hill of her toenail, and kiss her until she reaches the stars she promised to catch for him.

I love all of it. I love the idea of little lips tickling me to wake me up. I adore the notion of My Giant Lips being the first thing he feels in the morning (well, maybe the second) when he wakes up and knows I’ve peeled off the doll house roof to get a rise and shine out of him.

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