The last time we kissed, he told me he loved me. Not her, me. Don’t tell me I’m being petty. Everybody thrives on it, I’m just unafraid to paint my outsides every shade of ugly.
The last time we kissed was a sunny downpour of mixed feelings and humid rain and if I’d have looked up I might even have seen a rainbow. Luckily, I didn’t. There is only so much beauty you can intake without all beauty turning the colour of ashes and river water muddied by the regrets of those remaining.
The last time we kissed, I was drunk on whisky and coke and a little bit of adrenaline and he, as always, was drunk on himself. Drinking didn’t make it feel any less inevitable, any less nerve-wracking; like going to bed the night before something, something big but ultimately lying awake in a state of outstretched tension.
The last time we kissed, there was no neat before and after and preface and epilogue and tied-up ends of an endless circle. There was only the furious pounding of heartbeats pacing across corridors and living room floors circumventing conversation and luring harsh breaths against tied tongues.
The last time we kissed was the first time we kissed. But the kind of flares we’d been fighting against with every light handsbrushingkneesgrazing mess of a moment was a thousand stolen kisses and dirty, little secrets traded in broad daylight.
The last time we kissed I was the first time I kissed- the redemption of a thousand rejections at a hundred different college dances and after parties at the cost of one impossible chance of convincing him.
The last time we kissed he told me he saw himself in me and that he didn’t want to end up choking on too much of a good thing.
The last time we kissed was the first night I bled handstremblingknifeclatteringtothefloor blood in the sink, blood in the bathroom, blood on his coat hung upon the bedroom door.
The last time we kissed, I thought I was the perfect son.
The last time we kissed, he didn’t choose me. Mom left him.