midnight // love poems

first

f i r s t
He stands there with a sheepish grin plastered on his face. Laughter litters my steps as I get off the bed and walk towards him. Anticipation floods into my face with a smile. I put my arms around him and I can feel my heart racing like its never raced before and I love the moment and its magic is everything. "so it's about 90% me," he says, teaching me, like he promised, but I barely hear him because my eyes are lost in his. And then he's kissing me. His hands are holding me and I am standing there feeling his lips on mine and I am unsure of everything. And it isn't perfect. It's real, it's messy and it's clumsy. "we're doing this wrong," I manage to get in between his lips. I can feel the smile on his cheeks before he leans in again. "you know i think you're really hot," he says, and pink flush creeps on to my face. "romantic," i note, but he's kissing me again. Now my hands are behind his neck and I can't sense the world around me. I interrupt his lips a few more times with unnecessary prolixity and after it's over, he pulls me in for a hug and standing there with his body supporting mine, was the best I've felt in days. It was special. It's been hours but I bring my finger and lightly touch my lips and I wish his were on it. Not that the kiss was particularly magical, rather, it was the stark reality of the kiss that I liked. Because it was my first kiss. It wasn't supposed to be perfect and magical. It was supposed to be real. It was vulnerable and honest. It was messy and imperfect. It was my first kiss, and I will keep it in the back of my mind with rose licked envelopes with unsent love letters, careless innocence and flittering heartstrings in the wind that blew like the evening of my first kiss with a boy who made me happy.