Site icon Front Porches and Candlelight

When the Next Man Kisses Me

I tried. I really did; I tried.
But when he kissed my lips, I cried.

It wasn’t anything he did, or wanted to do
because I wanted it, too.

I thought just maybe, I was ready.
But my heart was still too heavy.

My emotions took control of me;
they wouldn’t set my soul free.

How do people do this, this moving on,
whether it’s forward or back, like an automaton?

My head’s telling me not to cling.
My body’s longing to have a fling.

But my heart is curious, still wondering:
Why is he not answering?

Am I really so easy to forget?
What is it that I just don’t get?

Just tell me what I need to hear
if you ever held me dear.

Then maybe when the next man kisses me,
I’ll kiss him back because I will, at last, be free.

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