A woman remembers the first three kisses from her lover, describing each as a step in a quiet, personal ceremony. The first kiss lands only on her writing fingers, yet it changes everything—her hand feels both purified and set apart, almost as if it’s now tuned to heavenly voices instead of everyday greetings. The second kiss aims for her forehead but slips partly into her hair, and she calls it a chrism, a holy anointing that prepares her for love’s full arrival. Then comes the third, pressed directly on her lips with a royal, perfect stillness. From that moment on, she carries a new proud certainty, calling her beloved “my love, my own.” The mood is hushed and intensely intimate, as if we’re overhearing a secret that moves from timid wonder to a deep, unshakeable joy.
Sonnet 38 - First time he kissed me, he but only kissed — Summary
First time he kissed me, he but only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write; And ever since, it grew more clean and white, Slow to world-greetings, quick with its 'Oh, list,' When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst I could not wear here, plainer to my sight, Than that first kiss. The second passed in height The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed, Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed! That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown, With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. The third upon my lips was folded down In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed, I have been proud and said, 'My love, my own.'