At that moment, having
said goodnight, turning down her
lamplit hallway, I heard
feather-steps behind me, swish
of skirt, no slip. A single moth
fluttered about the mahogany landing
settling on a gilt edge. As she
spoke, her upper lip moistened
and my eyes fixed onto the wallpaper
pattern of robed goddesses plucking zithers.
I realize now she wanted to be kissed.
She wanted me to kiss her.