The Littlest Things

Eden

They say the moment you find real connection with another person, words cease to exist.

And so on that rainy night at the end of May, after finishing two movies and chatting animatedly in between, we sat in silence, a foot away from each other. No one dared to speak. Hell, I didn't even think of speaking. There was something in the air that danced in the space between us that was paramount and perfect - almost spiritual- and speaking might ruin the moment.

Several minutes passed, and then I felt her gaze upon me. My lips slightly parted when I gazed back and saw her looking at me intently. "What is she thinking?" I wondered but held my tongue. She was looking at me with both softness and fierceness, and it made me uneasy.

"But if the Queen wants a staring contest, then the King would naturally oblige," I joked, shaking off the demons that were starting to build inside me.

"Ssshh." Her eyes twinkled as she silenced me off. Suddenly, she cupped my face, tracing the outline of my jaw ever so slowly, melting me with her gaze, and I was held immobile of the sudden tension, of the force field that is her fingertip, of the burning match that is her caress. It was an intense yet tender moment, and though no words came out of our mouths, our hearts spoke for the both of us.

She smiled her coy smile then, and as she continued staring and I continued drowning, I realized there could be so much joy with such a simple movement. There I was, slack-jawed and love-drunk, breathing and drinking in the moment of being held by her small, soft hands.

My eyes left hers for a second and they landed on the heart-shaped necklace resting on her chest. At once, I felt the need to touch her, too. I wanted to graze her skin with my palms, to use my fingers and write sonnets on her arms, to search for constellations on her pores, to look for scars I could try to heal with my touch. I wanted my hands to marvel at her beauty and paint Eden on her back.

But just as I was about to touch her, she shook her head and goddamn pouted. Then she lowered her left hand to my neck, gently placed her right hand on my shoulder, looked at me like I'm sunset, or snow in Paris, or a motherfucking Academy Awards' trophy, smiled her sweet, almost sensual, asthma-inducing smile, had me gaping like an idiot, and slowly brought her face closer to mine. And closer. And closer. Until the sight of her lashes made me dizzy, and the scent of her hair overwhelmed me, and the thought of her kiss was like a desperate prayer uttered before jumping off a cliff. And when her face was millimeters away and time turned into milliseconds, I closed my eyes and waited for death to take over, waited for angels and devils to take my soul. I thought of finding heaven on the hollow of her neck and hearing church choir sing Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah when our kiss deepens later on.

But all thoughts faded when her kiss made contact to my skin. For in that moment, it wasn't my mouth that found salvation. It was my jawline that met God on the lightest touch of her lips. It was... something. My blood rushed through my veins; my hormones urged for more. But I sat still. Her soft kiss was better than making out, anyway. It was better than a new car. Better than The Beatles, better than NBA, better than a cold shower, better than Polaris, better than exhilaration. It was better than rooftop kisses and stolen moments inside the van. It was better than touching. Better than passion.

Two centuries might have passed before her lips left my jaw, but my eyes remained closed. I felt her hand massage my neck, and I bit my lip when I felt her cheek against mine. We remained like that for a moment, still not talking. I could almost taste the silence and stillness and sweetness of the air. Then I sensed her move. I heard her sigh. I groaned when I felt her warm breath as her mouth enveloped mine. And as she sent me to near-Nirvana for the second time, I pulled her closer and prayed for her lips.

Because, Holy Mary, Mother of All, her kiss was better than bliss.