The kiss

When you kiss her, kiss her like you mean it. Not one of those hit and run pecks. But a real kiss. The one where you look at her eyes instead of her boobs. The one where it’s about you and her only. Not the one where you feel like tearing your way through her to be inside her. No, that’s for later. This is the one where you first turn her face towards you when she gets shy and she looks away to avoid your gaze. You breathe in the smell of her face and feel her stubborn strands of hair prick your cheeks. Hold her face in your hand, and make her look at you. Slide your hands behind her back and hold her from her waist, not her butt, and pull her towards you. That’s when you move in to feel her lips. You close your eyes and take your time. Savor her, like the time you drank a fresh, steaming cup of tea in the coldest weather on top of Adam's Peak. Explore her, as though it was the first time. The different textures and lines of her skin remind you of the creases of dry leaves in February and while you trace these lines, you notice her breathing is in sync with yours; shallow and fast. You can’t hear your own breathing over the sound of the ocean wind. You don't hear your own thoughts because you badly want to know what goes on in her head. Her hands run down your back, slowly tracing the ridges of your spine and you feel as though she is draining out your day’s stresses through her fingers. And then you kiss her like you want the idea of her to dance through you, and you feel paused in time. Kiss her like you’ve forgotten any other mouth that you’ve ever touched. Kiss her like you are starving. Kiss her soft. Kiss her silly. Kiss her until it hurts your heart. Move away. And then ask her what number comes after 1 and 2 and listen to her answer with your name.