It has been a long time and I haven’t really kissed too many mouths. Not in the grand scheme, I suppose. I’d guess you’ve kissed far more. You’ve tasted your share of other possibilities. It’s not a competition, I remind myself.
I kissed someone new 6 months after we said goodbye, but it was awkward and a friend. It was more muscle memory, not the I want you, I want you like it was with us.
I kissed the boy in college who promised he was a man, but I quickly learned his 6’3” stature was a clever trick. He was simply a boy with big hands and bigger words. I kissed him and it almost felt good. It almost felt like you.
I kissed the man who lived in Hollywood and decided he was Love. But darling, he wasn’t Love. He was infatuation with someone I couldn’t have. He was a distraction. He was a place to pour all our unfinished business.
I kissed the man who didn’t listen to what I said after.
My friend says I should be making out with strangers in bars, that not everyone has to be The One. But that’s not really my style. I’ve never known how to lust. My heart jumps in before I can tell it, “Listen, just once, can you back off?”
The first time you kissed me was in the house I grew up.
It was the same house I learned how to stand on my tippy toes to reach the cupboard. It was the same house I learned to listen to NPR before Dad drove me to school. It was the same house I learned to love. And the same house I learned goodbye.
I don’t know if this is morbid and a weird thing to say, but when we kissed, we were mere inches from the same spot my dad passed away. You hold so much of me, my past, my story in those lips. You hold all of me in your kiss.
I keep hoping someone’s mouth will erase yours. With enough time, sure. With enough practice, of course.
I’m waiting for someone to kiss me like you did. But the truth is, I’m just waiting for you.