It was not a lick, or a peck, nor a painful bite,
It was a kiss.
The sweetest and purest form of love.
Not once but twice,
As if to say ,
That it was indeed what it was.
To say any more ,
Would mean to distort its purity.
In Byron's words
"When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past
For years fleet away with the wings of the doveThe dearest remembrance will still be the last,
Our sweetest memorial, the first kiss of love."
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