Three little deadly kisses is what they are. No more, no less. On the lips and not further. A touch of an arm. A touch so light not to distract you but to assure myself of your existence. It's stretching the tips of your toes to the bottom of water in which you wade to assure yourself the earth is still there. But even this is not real. I have no fingers. I become only lips, there is no body, nor 22 floors holding the building underneath us, nor anything above us. No ceiling, no floors, no clouds, no moon, no life, no death. Eternity in an eternal embrace of souls connected only by barely touching lips. Too ethereal to remain, you disappear, and with you all else. I close my eyes, my ears, my touch, I have only this.