Kissing her

Kissing her is like coming home after I’ve been standing in the cold rain. It’s like freshly made apple pie, steaming still, and I’m starving when there’s nothing else to eat. Like reading a book and falling in love with the words spilled over the page. It’s the story laid out, anticipation and build up only to reach the climax and fall back softly. It’s the certainty— the chilling satisfaction—of knowing that words can fall in love too. 

Kissing her is like remembering all of the good parts of me—all of the potential and none of the heartbreak. 

Kissing her is like the best version of me that I can be. A version of myself I haven’t seen in a long time.

And it’s because I’ve kissed her.