The first time we kissed it was raining so hard.
So hard, that I was soaking wet after I got out of your car.
I could feel the big drops on my shoulders, thinking I might get sick in the morning, but I didn't.
You said "see you tomorrow."
So I slept,
peacefully.
Had I known,
I would have never said good night.
I would have never slept at all.
The first time we kissed,
my phone rang.
You threw it in the backseat,
saying "it can wait."
I found a happy remix
to your sad lullaby.
We started listening to it,
every night.
You turned the music up.
It wasn't loud enough to drown the moment.
I wish I held on to it,
to you.
The first, no, the last
—I don't know.
The first and last time we kissed,
there.
You never texted.
You never called back.
I let it go,
called it a night.
Maybe you were tired,
maybe you thought it'd be
too weird to text me right away.
Maybe you didn't know how to respond,
but days turned to weeks.
All these fleeting scenarios.
All the endless possibilities.
We kissed before your mouth was filled
with gravel and blood.
The first time we kissed,
you never made it home.
