I’ve been sitting in that rather strange place tonight. Trapped between deep thought, a million stories to be written, and the simple lack of alertness to do justice to the prose.
Tonight, my mind has been coming back around, again and again, to the kiss.
The first kiss of any relationship.
The second, the third, and the 300th.
You can tell a lot from a kiss. The first one, usually desperate, awkward or accidental is merely a leap together. The risk that, in that moment, you both are willing to take.
But the ones that follow, as your lips learn each other, fitting together like pieces of a puzzle—those are the ones that matter.
I have kissed many a beautiful young woman in my lifetime, but very few have been the type you think of days later; months later—years later.
It’s more than love, more than intimacy. It’s passion.
It’s a whisper in the ear, over and over again, reminding you that you aren’t in this alone. The warmth of a big spoon, stirring, stirring.
When the lips fit, as if they were designed for one another, it is a rarity, and presents a far deeper connection than three simple, often misused words can.
When the lips fit, the souls tend to follow, even if the heart cannot.