I remember every kiss I’ve ever had—clearly.
The first kiss, the last kiss…the goodbye kiss, the “it’s been far too long kiss”…I had experienced nearly all of them. Right down to the accidental kiss.
I remember specific moments as if they were yesterday, some forbidden, some unexpected, others reduced to a science. I remembers them all.
I remember drawing hearts in the steamed glass of an early eighties hatchback with sweaty toes. Moments of youth, where the words themselves were too difficult and confusing to say out loud.
Falling into the shadows of a freight elevator, giving in and letting go, perhaps for the first time in my life—bodies pulled close, my loneliness obvious but moot.
Leaning across a parking brake, though the exact intersection is fuzzy—a friendly argument that would never find resolution.
I remember the obligatory three-kiss goodnight, often through pursed lips.
That first kiss after a long, long time apart, unbridled yet somehow deliberate. A longing that pulsed through every muffled moan and pull of hair.
I even remember the smaller moments. A rare burst of confidence while waiting for an elevator in another state; lips I would kiss for just a week, yet somehow hold onto for a lifetime.
Kisses that began at the lips and stopped on the belly, self control dictated by the rising sun and impending work.
Forbidden lips in the back of an old Chevy Suburban, the smell of sex mixing with gasoline and flat beer.
Falling into an accidental kiss amidst the fog of a hot summer night with no air conditioning. Sweat sticking to an uncomfortable red couch, lost in a woman destined for obscure, fuzzy memory, though remembered nonetheless.
I remember how desperate, passionate and deliberate each and every kiss became, once subjected to fond recollection.
I remember holding tight and letting go simultaneously.
I remember them all.