The poem begins with a question that sounds like idle curiosity: whose kiss was the first ever, and was it like velvet? The speaker seems to be reaching back toward an origin, a moment when something new began. The title, "Inception," points the same way. Velvet gives that beginning a soft, tender texture, though the speaker only wonders about it and never claims to know.
Then the poem shifts into stranger territory. A "hungry clock" for a house "to spend time with" turns time into something that wants to be fed, and a home that must pass its hours somehow. The last lines bring in a quiet sense of change: something begins to sing, and "we" stop to reconsider what to do or be. The mood is dreamy, curious and a little uncertain. Nothing is settled, but there is a feeling of possibility, as if starting something, whether a kiss, a life or a new way of being, opens a space for choice.