If they were born in heart fires
Not the smelt work of magma chambers
Or the wringing weight of ocean waters

If they lasted as long as a peck
Or at most as long as the two hours
Spent on a couch at fifteen 

Would our walking always be on air
Each step be a smack that bouyed us along

Would each stone hurled turn into air 
In mid-flight, turn into the softness of lips

There is a lie in the premise
The hope that all kisses given are pure
That lips aren’t also sharp as betrayal