Ode to the Perfect Kiss
Two barely-teens in love with each other. She's leaning against the wall, he's in front of her. They're nervous. They have no idea what to do. Her heartbeat's racing already. It's uncomfortably warm, but she's trembling. Her arms go around his neck. After a moment of confusion, his encircle her waist.
'Hi,' she whispers and laughs shakily. 'I have no idea how to do this.'
He grins back. 'Neither do I.' And then he leans in, agonizingly slow. His body is so warm she might start sweating. A prolonged sensation of butterflies starts in her stomach as he comes closer. But then – he misses.
Or at least that's what she thinks happened, because his lips have passed hers by. His face brushes very lightly against the sensitive skin on the crook of her neck. Her head tips back, and her hands start shaking, clasped around him. When he inhales, the rush of air gives her goose bumps all over her arms, and the butterflies are on fire now. He draws away and straightens. One of his hands leaves her waist and grasps her jaw. His fingers are even hotter than her blush.
And finally – his lips are moments away from hers. Their heads tip closer. Her sigh is light and involuntary, and he takes advantage of that distraction to steal the kiss. His lips are so warm. That seems to be the theme of the evening – warm. And now all the teasing is done, and the love is flowing in full force. His body is pressing hers into the wall, from chest to hip to thigh, and all she can do is tangle her fingers in his hair and thank the wall for holding her up. You wouldn't hear any music, and there are no fireworks, but the heat singing in her veins and the sensation exploding in her chest is overwhelming enough.
And afterwards, all the stress has been drained out of her. She slumps against him, suddenly exhausted. He locks her in a fierce hug, and she buries her face in his neck, breathing his wonderful scent in. It is a while before she is sure the emotions running through her will not make her cry.
Epilogue -
Why not a letter?
Dear Love
and dear reader
I do not know who you are, and you do not know who I am. We've gotten closer to knowing each other than most people have, and I suppose that will have to be enough. I still have no idea, six months later, what that word means, but if I had to associate it with anyone I'd associate it with you. You can never doubt that.
I wish I could get philosophical here, and say what I cannot say, but you've heard it all already. I usually don't take things so seriously, so my obsession is definitely a compliment to you. A lot has happened in the last year, and I would like to come to a close now. The pages were beautiful, at least to me, but things must end. The book should be put away now.
I used to think of 'that desire to find a person' as a quest. I imagined that I was a tireless crusader, looking for my bit of love in this world – how ridiculous, I'm only fourteen. If I still believed that this has been a quest, I would say that you are my prize. Perhaps not the final treasure, but definitely of consequence. But perhaps also the final treasure. The one I let slip away.
I sound stupid now. What I'm trying to say is, I love you. And I have loved you more than anyone who came before you. It will break my heart if you doubt these words of mine. But you should know that I don't know you and you don't know me. This will lead to ugliness down the road, and that's when I want you not to get surprised or hurt. I see it coming and you should too. So I think it's for the best to end this chronicle here on a sweet note. What remains to happen will happen, but not in writing.
Bye. See ya later. –A
