Kisses for everyone

Tuesday was International Kissing Day, but unfortunately we couldn't celebrate by kissing. That's an example of the paradox of the times we live in at present. I can't even remember the last time I kissed anyone outside the four walls of my home. There used to be kisses when you bumped into a friend in the street, or when you were seeing someone off at an airport. There were tender kisses on a child's sticky cheek or the wrinkled one of a great-aunt who smells of oriental perfume. We are restricted to intimacy now. To those who live under the same roof as us. Our kisses are now reserved only for those who taste of coffee in the mornings and toothpaste at night.

The other kisses, the ones we used to give out generously and indiscriminately among friends and strangers, who stopped being strangers at that very moment, are no longer given from our lips but from those of emojis on WhatsApp on our mobile phones.

We send kisses to people that way because we can't give them kisses anymore, because taking off our mask would be considered even worse than stripping off our clothes, because kissing is dangerous. Now, this risk is only taken by new lovers, those who are prepared to risk their lungs - and those of others - for the sake of their heart.

You sense them amid the shadows of an alleyway, where they hide from other people's eyes to look into each other's, to uncover their masked mouths and find that the kiss within is a total revelation, that it unbalances bodies and minds, that it takes away the hunger because now all they want is to feed on the tongue of the other person, their teeth, their saliva.

And afterwards, putting the masks back on is like putting their underwear on after making love in someone else's bed, and they rush to get home before curfew starts, running through town with a stupid grin on their faces, covered by a small piece of fabric.

The new lovers don't need the kisses of others because the ones they have are enough.

Despite all this, kisses for everyone.