Her lips taste like day-old brioche
and a chemist’s concept of cherries.
Her kiss presses a thin, scented film,
onto mine like carbon paper.
People always want to know about
your first, but what about your last:
Kiss. Dance. Love. Maybe that’s why
she keeps a box of receipts, contents crinkling
with potential lasts, chronicles of prix fixes
and 7-10 splits. AMC stubs. New York slices.
I wonder if that box will overflow with old bills
or tears first. Memories wet or dry.
I know our last will come someday. People do
tend to ask about your last meal. I hope mine is
together, in bed, legs tangled beneath
our stretched stomachs, following a breakfast
of fresh cherry compote and French Toast
prepared by my wrinkled hands.