kissing and telling

He grabs a bottle of wine from the fridge, and some glasses. We ascend the spiral staircase to the sky and suddenly I find myself kissing him, or him kissing me, and I don’t mind. I am kissing an almost-stranger, on a rooftop in full-moon light. He kisses me like he wants to kiss me, like we are familiar, like we have been kissing each other for a long time. I think when he kisses me, I am, at least, guilty of pretending like this is perfect. I run my fingers lazily up and down his back like he does mine, I kiss him softly and gently like he does me, with all the tenderness of love and caring, and then we press our foreheads and noses together and close our eyes and breathe deep, contented breaths and we smile blindly to ourselves and savour this moment in which we can feel the close warmth of somebody’s presence, this moment in which we are not alone.