Under the Salem Spell

This post is for my friend Christine. These last two weeks she invited me to stay at her beautiful home, while she travelled for work. Her home,her energy, her fiercely romantic heart, and the way she believes in true love surrounded me and filled my dreams. All credit for this post goes to her. Thank you Chris. (A small caveat, this post describes and comments on “a kiss”  but a good kiss. We all know there are plenty of bad kisses out there.)

As I lay in my window-seat bed, over the croonings of Josh Turner and Sam Smith, I can hear the swoosh and whisper of the wind; Wind that carries the sweet, sour scent of the ocean. The smell rests heavily upon my lip like a milk-stache, and I feel as though a quick dart of my tongue and the ocean is just a lick away.

The weight of the heavy ocean air is like the familiar fondness of a second kiss; without the anticipation and anxiety of how it will be, but with all the passion, fire and comfort of knowing that it is right.

Kissing always blew my mind; how do two people, who are all but strangers are able to participate in this incredibly intimate act- without a single conscious thought? Spontaneity is half the magic. With perfect fluidity the kiss goes from unfamiliar to familiar, and suddenly a hidden rhythm of their own is unearthed and they both succumb to it. They know instinctively how to turn their heads or move their bodies to fit into the most comfortable kiss. Arms wonder and steady each other, bringing the “togetherness” of the lips to the whole body. Breath is held, or shared. It’s so simple but so intimate; this touching of lips and tongues and teeth.

Occasionally the wind stills into absolute silence. I drift off to a fitful dream as I have for the last fortnight.

I love when the brush and vegetation rubs against the house; kneading out decades of knots and cramps the walls have gained from standing firmly against all of of nature’s abuses. I imagine that the house sighs and leans into the hard fingers of the branches. The rhythmic ‘scratch’ ‘thump’ ‘scratch’ thump’ slows until the leaves are picked up by the wind again, and it starts all over again.

And still I dream.

May be its the magic of summer, the combination of heat and moisture in the air, or may be there is something special about the air in Salem. The humm in the air could be the spirit of girls, young women burned at the stake- perhaps yearning for a kiss they can never have. Whatever it is my mind is like a live wire, a buzz with words and fiery passion.

I’m caught in the Salem Spell of romance and Fire.

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