Bloodstained sweatshirt with no recollection of how it got there, or who's it was.
Hands nervous and gentle, assured and rough, sitting terribly low on my hips.
Street lights an unflattering amber on our pale skin, illuminating his eager eyes and my perpetually self-conscious ones.
The sweet scent of teenage boy clung to him in the best possible way.
These are the details of the first time he kissed me, the push of the domino.
Since that night, with the neighbors' swing set alone as a witness and the brave frailty of a fall night's cold, I have been hooked. Trapped, spellbound, moonstruck, indelibly in lust with him.
My back against a concrete wall, hands roaming and tickling the valorous strip of skin that really should be covered by my shirt.
Lips on mine, hip bones digging into mine, hurried and heavenly. This was our last kiss.
It was not tender, like the first one. But I was still too enraptured to worry about a **** thing, and he still had the upper hand.
I do not know if we will get to re-do our last kiss, but god do I hope we do.
