Last summer we sat in my living room one night while the kids were back east with their dad. I think we were supposed to be watching Sherlock Holmes [in fact, I think we’ve ‘supposed to’ watch that movie 4 times now]. Just a quiet night alone. The lights were off and it was just past dusk. I remember the feel of the cool leather couch under my legs and against my back, and how the last bits of sunflare were seeping through the window above us. We were intertwined in a lump of love, like usual, when the kissing started.
I know I was lying on top of you when the kissing kicked up a notch and your hands started running through my hair. The way we kiss has always, always been one of my most favorite things. Since the five-hour-first-kiss hot. That night it was no different, until you pulled your head back and smiled at me. Your hand was still in my hair, holding the back of my head. I love it when your hand is still in my hair, holding the back of my head.
You said, “I’m not sure that I really want to know the answer to this, but I have to ask you something.” I focused on your face in the dim light. Sherlock was doing… something in the background. “Did you ever kiss like this before? I mean, I’ve never kissed anybody like this before. Is this different for you, too? Does it feel different?”
I nodded and smiled. And then dove for your face again.
Oh hell yes, Homeboy. It’s always, always been different for us. It's STILL different. There is so little echo about our relationship, that it is all brand new and exciting. The way we kiss is out of this world. Every single movement of it, from the way your breathing changes right before our lips meet to the places we put our hands. The curl of your tongue and the thrust of your chin are fervent. Eager. Insistent. You claim me every time. My entire self goes to pieces right in your arms, too.
Just a thing I was thinking this morning. I love you, B.