Extra Time In Your…

by pronounced "ahhh" like a sigh

First kiss was age 18, my first semester of college. His name was Kevin. In high school, I had sports and pom squad and Teen Summit on weekends and parents who didn’t want to hear the word “boy” unless I was referring to my brothers. I came to college unkissed and untouched; wide eyed and oblivious. Some would say the latter hasn’t changed much. My first kiss happened in my dorm. I can’t remember any of the details and I’m quite sure I don’t want to. The only thing I remember is that I thought he looked like Tevin Campbell and in 1994, Tevin Campbell was Chris Brown with hands that gripped microphones instead of throats. I met Tevin on Teen Summit and I was thrown back by how “not interested” in my kind he was. But I still loved him. Every s-curl, high pitched, barely mustachioed, ounce of him. So when I met Kevin, my heart read Tevin and that was all she needed for Kevin to be  recorded in my history as “first kiss”…

Years later, there would be another Kevin. The exact polar opposite of that first Kevin. He would be the last that moved me quite that way. Those kisses were more like questions. Do you love me? Do you love me now? How about now? Now? Between both those Kevins and after the last one, there were more. Terrible, wet, soggy ones. Beautiful, gentle, lovely ones. Some all tongue and teeth. Others all mouth and full and inhale. But there is nothing like the first time two lips meets.

This is about first kisses. About the parts inside that swing and flutter with the pepper of anticipation. This is about the stomach– giddy, tossing you near motion sickness. This is about the sweet of breath on your cheek. The soft that grazes you forehead and nose and top lip and nape of neck; the soft that teases you collar bone and bare shoulder then returns to find the lips paired and proper. This is about the bottom one that almost pulls moisture from the air and plumps—ready. It’s about the arms that place you sudden and firm into the moment. The small of back that you fold and breathe into; warmed by the hand that found itself there. It’s for your hands. How they find neck, caress back, stroke hair or bald head. How they hesitate and linger before roaming and finding. It’s about the lift and sway. It’s about the tingle and volley; the steady and swim. This post is about the first kiss since it all changed. Since the bough broke. Since it fell. It’s about this man that erases the salt and wounds of your history. The one that is only balm and salve on bruised and battered. The one that reminds you of possibility. Divinity. You beauty, flick and and poem of laughter. He reminds you to dig for that laughter. Teaches you to own the dance. Allow the body forgiveness. Forget the way it betrayed you. Allow it it’s own healing. Allows you mending wings and prayer. Allows you desire and promise. Allows you space and security.

Allows these kisses that fall from the sky like a hallelujah.

Let it rain…

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