Dear Adam, (#2 in series)

29

Dear Adam,

Your lips were like bitter tequila. I knew that they would be the end of me, but they're just so addicting. Your lips intoxicated my own, until the toxic was running through my veins, craving more of your touch. Everytime I kissed you, it was like I was drunk. My body was clumsy, my knees would go weak, and my hands fumbled on the buttons of your red and black flannel shirt. Kissing you was a daze, a dream. Because I knew reality was too damn crappy to be as amazing as the touch of your swollen lips against mine. I had to keep reminding myself this was real that you were here and I was there. That we existed. And even though I knew this moment wouldn't last that long, I would take the infinites of fractions between two seconds over nothing any time of the day. Because kissing you was like watching a shooting star fall across the sky. You knew it would be gone, over, if you just glanced away for a moment. So you try to capture the moment and grasp it with every once of your brain, until you can still exactly recall the color of the shirt that one stranger was wearing, how they had a mustard stain below the left breast pocket, how the temperature that night was exactly 78°F, and how the sky was particularly clear and the stars shown from light years away, whether they are living or already dead, we will never know. But that's okay because this moment was something worth remembering.

That's how it felt kissing you, and I don't give a flying duck if that sounded cheesy or didn't make any sense, because to me it was clear as day and seemed oh so right.

And after kissing you was like being high, because I didn't know when or how I would get down from the heights of that kiss. All I knew was that it would happen and all too soon the moment would be gone. So I just lived it as best as I could and I carry it with me everywhere I go.

So, Adam, your kisses were like tequila. Both a blessing and a curse, because they no longer exist, they died about the same time you did.

And what's an alcoholic without their alcohol?

Love,

Bailey