Kissing Him Is Like Magic

couple kissing during golden hour
Joe Yates / Unsplash

Kissing him is like magic. Like being bewitched over and over again. When his fingers are dancing across the supple flesh under my shirt, I want nothing more than to pull him in closer, making me crave him, making me want him in all ways imaginable. Putting me in a trance when the space between our bodies exists no more.

Kissing him is like being dragged into some other dimension. As though I’m being taken into another layer of the universe. I feel a sudden rush in my bones, an unfathomable bliss. All of a sudden, I don’t want to be anywhere else but here—under his touch.

Kissing him is like getting drunk, everything becoming a solid blur. I have never pulled away sober ever since. It always seems as though I’m drinking him all up—the musk of his cologne, the taste of his lips. He kisses me with so much want. Like he doesn’t want to come away. And he cradles my face in the palm of his hands and draws me in for another, again and again.

Kissing him is like flying, lifting me high up in space, way pass cloud nine. He kisses me and it’s like I’ve suddenly grown wings. I no longer want to come down from my high. I just want to stay above the clouds and defy gravity with him. I just want to kiss him until I’ve forgotten what the earth feels like under my feet.

Kissing him is like tasting the summer. Like sweet, summertime honey coating the insides of my mouth. Kissing him reminds me of my young heart in commotion, pounding heavily in my ears the exact moment he motions to lean down to press our lips together. Kissing him makes all those goddamn butterflies erupt from the pit of my stomach. I just want to stay wrapped around his arms forever.

Kissing him is addictive. It’s toxic, like poison seeping into my veins willingly. His touch, searing, making indents into my skin. And he’s dragging me closer and closer till oxygen becomes a novelty. It’s deadly but I know I’d risk it anyway.

Kissing him is like being taken back in time. He presses his lips onto mine and I’m sixteen again. He kisses me with such childish delight, teeth clashing with teeth from all the giggling in between. Sheets are tangling between our limbs, our fingers caught in soft tresses. For a moment, we are kids again, curious and rushing. Clammy hands making their way past soft skin, trying to touch as much flesh like there’s a time bomb ticking.

But sometimes, he kisses me and it’s slow. It’s subtle. It’s nothing like the kisses he gives me when I’m pinned up against the wall, when he’s scurrying and hasty. With this one, there’s no rush. He kisses me like he has time in the palm of his hands. He kisses me like he’s trying to write stories on my own flesh. But not like he’s waiting, not like he’s waiting for something more than the comfort in the brush of our lips.

This time, he kisses me so languidly that I am left at ease with a smile curving on my lips. It’s unhurried, completely unbothered by the outside world. The planet goes silent for a while. And somehow, it feels as though my lips have always been meant to touch his, fitting together like long lost jigsaw puzzle pieces. When he kisses me, everything else disappears.

Kissing him was nothing short of heavenly. He kisses me and makes me realize that the universe has always been made up of him.

And I love him, I love him, I love him. TC mark

More From Thought Catalog

lethargic, melodramatic and a little bit of a hopeless romantic. Follow Giana Mae on Instagram or read more articles from Giana Mae on Thought Catalog.