Every kiss before 1983

He’d kiss her when he’d leave

and after he’d come back home.

He’d kiss her under her ear

where she dabbed perfume

and the middle of her palm like a promise.

He’d kiss her in the dark searching for her mouth

finding her nose instead

making them both laugh,

and then he’d have to kiss her again.

He’d kiss her on her forehead sealing a worry, stalling some pain.

He’d kiss her when she was funny

which was lot, so he kissed her quite a bit.

He’d plant his kisses in a soft trail or

leave behind a rough memory of beard on skin.

He’d kiss her in April when it rained unexpectedly

and October when the sun sets in maroon-orange.

He’d kiss her in the kitchen, behind a pile of laundry, discreetly over the tops of the their children’s heads and boldly in the middle of a foreign holiday.

He once kissed her to end an argument

but that didn’t work out as planned.

And for a while, his kisses were careful and fleeting.

But he’d kiss her soon enough in all the old ways, secret Indian kisses and flamboyant ones picked up from Rome like souvenirs.

Of course, some of his kisses were brushed off before they even began.

But this once, he kissed her theatrically in a photograph –– a kiss that’s preserved in an album buried under documents,

old saris and books no one reads

within an old Godrej cupboard;

a black and white kiss, now forgotten.