They say you never forget your first kiss. Of course, I did. Which is not to say it was of no consequence. It was. I’m sure. And it’s not like I’ve kissed a lot of people, because I haven’t.
I remember this first kiss, though. I remember every moment leading up to it, and I remember the moments that followed. Each smell, every sensation. Every hammer beat of my heart. God, it was world-changing and at the risk of sounding saccharine, it was freakin’ magical. There may even have been a second kiss, but I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information.
But the days and—now—the weeks since… well, they haven’t exactly gone as I’d hoped. This experience has reminded me of something I guess I’d forgotten. The sharp sting of new heartache. When was the last time I opened myself up like this? It’s been… quite a while. Long enough for scar tissue.
I kind of hate it.
I kind of like it.
Even though it ended this way, so quickly and abruptly.
Disappointment followed, of course. For the things that won’t happen and, wow, I really let myself get carried away. It’s hilarious, really, how unlike myself I was. Throwing caution to the wind and just enjoying the moment, anticipating the ones to come. Ah.
It hurts, of course. But it’s not so bad. Guess I should be thankful.
I know I appreciate it, this reminder. This exchange. Mid to high. The high to low. The very roller-coaster-like exhilaration. The soaring butterflies sensation and the unnerving bottom that drops out. Oh yes. All of that.