They very next time I sit with you for two hours and some minutes at the top of a stairwell, crying alcoholic tears as you talk about your mother, you will find yourself kissed.
Like the skin of a lady by the summertime sun.
Or my brother by my mother after every basketball game.
Yes, the very next time, I will put my hand on your shoulder and kiss you with my eyes closed.
Because that's how I want it.