Kissing Him

Sometimes, when we kissed, I would open my eyes to make sure it was really happening.  That this person, the best I had ever met, would want to be kissing me.
Me.
This individual filled with so many flaws and imperfections.
So many deficiencies and defects.
So many broken wheels and torn seams.
And him, this person who I couldn’t find one fault in.
With whom I may have overlooked all the faults in.
With whom I really didn’t care how many faults he had.
All I really cared about was me and him, kissing.
And making sure it was really happening.
That I wasn’t dreaming.
And every time I was so surprised that it was that real.
I mean, all my life I had done everything half assed, half baked, half finished.  But now, this wasn’t any of that. Not half closed, half made, half empty.  It was full, done, completed; this, right here, right now was all of me on the line.  Because when I kissed him, I knew he could see right through me at that moment.
I was always slightly transparent for him; he could make his way through some of me, but I was always just vaguely cloudy.  But when he would kiss me... it was then I was at my most visible and exposed to him.  It was a terrible feeling.
My legs couldn’t handle the weight, knowing that I had no cover, no protection.  They wouldn’t hold me, so I would wrap my arms around him, tighter, drawing the kiss even deeper, just worsening my problem.  With each tug, each I Love You, more and more of me became stripped and uncovered, until there was no part of me that he hadn’t seen.
And then, I would forget to breath.  Getting so caught up in trying to hold some of me back from him, and then I would just simply let my self be absorbed.
Somewhere in that, I forgot to breath.
As if my whole body shut down just for me to kiss him.
My heartbeat felt nonexistent.
My mind didn’t process anymore.
But worst of all, I would forget to breath.
It would go on for a minute before I would pull away and remember that I need air, something other than him.
Me, gasping, he would stroke my cheek and ask if I was ok.
I would nod my head, too breathless to speak, and he would place a gentle kiss on my forehead, making me feel so incredibly safe and protected and sheltered.  He would let his lips linger there.  They were at perfectly even height, his lips and my forehead, just another hint how we fit together so well.  Just by standing close, his mouth would graze my brow and suddenly make me feel so secure and invulnerable.
Trying to grasp my ground before I went under again, I would pack my lungs as full as possible with enough air to last me another lifetime with him, our breaths mixing, intermingling.  Then, I would drown myself by pulling him even closer and kissing him again.
And he would start leaning forward, arching my back, kissing me, making me feel like I would tumble backwards, fall, and never get up.  But then, right at the moment I was sure I would drop, I would feel his hand pressing into my back, supporting me, making sure I would never touch the ground.
I could feel each individual fingertip pressing into me.
I could feel each chapped layer of skin on his lips.
I could feel each single strand of hair.
I could feel each solitary emotion flowing through his body, but I could barely decipher my own.  All I could feel was a jumbled mess of  happiness and love and desire and want, all for him.
But, in him, I could feel the need for that spot on the back of my neck, that he knew made me shiver with each kiss.
And, in him, I could feel the joy that he was kissing me, me, something, I still didn’t understand, that bliss to be kissing me.
And, in him, I could feel the longing to pull me, closer, tighter, and feel my body pressing against his.
And, in him, I could feel the contentment that funneled out through his hands that were running up my spine.  But then, when he would do that, I couldn’t concentrate on anything, what we were doing, where we were, what was happening, where his hands were, because of the chill coursing thought my body with every touch.  Somehow, though, I knew I didn’t have to worry where his hands would be edging, because I could feel his respect and want for me, too.
And then everything would slip away again as I was kissing him.