When Galaxies Remember

There are kisses that taste like the beginning.
This one tasted like the return.

When Galaxies Kiss
by Jetta Nicoline Harrison

we didn’t kiss.
we collided—
two oracles of flesh,
remembering
the choreography of stars
through mouths.

his lips were the edge of the universe.
mine, the place where silence
learned to speak.

we moved
not with urgency,
but with the gravity
of something eternal.

there was no beginning—
only return.
only the soft undoing
of skin
as we stepped back into the shape
we were
before names,
before bones,
before breath.

our tongues
were galaxies reuniting,
swirling like old friends
who once made love as stars
before falling
into separate skins.

and in that rhythm—
that spiral of heat and hush—
we found the axis
of a thousand lifetimes.
the place where time bowed out,
and only essence remained.

his mouth
was a psalm
written in the script of God.
every movement
a prayer
i didn’t know i’d been dying
to remember.

we kissed
and planets shifted.
nebulae pulsed.
the heavens leaned in,
awed by the purity
of the bliss
we built
with breath alone.

it was not pleasure.
it was devotion.
a worship so pure
it stripped us
of everything false
and left only
truth—
spinning,
naked,
sacred.

and when it ended—
when we finally pulled back,
bodies trembling
from the weight of it—
i looked at him

and saw
every lifetime
i had ever missed him in.