Freshman year in an apartment tucked somewhere between a college town and a row of bars, I had my first kiss. It was underwhelming. I stopped reading romance novels a week after this. I don’t know if these two statements are related but we were young and our hands didn’t even reach for each other. I leaned in, eyes fully open, lips dry and he brushed past them like I was the rain and he was the desert.
I love being loved in a language that I can’t understand. He chuckled into my mouth and called me naïve and whispered charming French words that I couldn’t possibly understand. In the end, his love was too big for me,
so I left.
He died, so I pretend it never happened.
Did you know that because of a loss in orbital energy, the moon is moving away continuously from the earth? That night, I remember looking up and thinking that this is the nearest the moon would ever be to us and slowly pointing it out to him. He reached for my lips instead in the back of his parked car and called me magic.
I kissed him because I had writer’s block and I needed a metaphor for rebounds and tongues that skip over the letter ‘h’.
He tasted like sin and I liked that.
The first time we kissed, it was the safest I’d ever felt in another’s skin. We weren’t in love. We just thought we were. He burnt his language into my skin. He kissed lipsticks off these lips and made swollen bodies out of my loneliness. I thought it was forever, I was wrong. He couldn’t love me off my ledge and even though I spilled myself empty for him, he didn’t stay. He always tasted like tart yoghurt. The day he came back, he tasted like beer and religion and I remember thinking –
he is just an ordinary boy, after all.