There's a stand up sketch where comedian Chris Rock describes kissing someone for the first time is like a game of double dutch. How you are waiting for the right moment to kiss and you're waiting, waiting and then: you jump in and you're "KISSING!!!" He is very enthusiastic over the intensity of getting in this game.
But when I picture kissing instead of that jumping in, I can feel my heart beating in my temples. My breath catching in my throat, threatening to suffocate me and all the energy around, his pulse under my hands and right as our lips almost meet- before that jumping in; like this is a contest and we need to win- my lips near his. And it's fire and electricity and pain and pleasure and ice and all things that threaten to steal and corrupt. To rip and tear, but it's been building for so long that it's scary to touch in this silent moment.
And then the kiss itself.
It's one of those kisses that defines all others. And given all the circumstances it shouldn't, but it does anyhow. Like going in we know there's not future. This can be nothing, but a one and done connection like ours doesn't lend itself to that rushed kissing Chris Rock mentioned.
Rather, we find ourselves halted at the entrance of our single thought; by the should we or shouldn't we. That the years of wanting and thinking and considering; all those times with held breath and bright eyes and a casual glimpse and the wondering. Those deep conversations punctuated by head nods and lingering glances. Knowing once this kiss is done, no matter if it is as good as we imagine or as like any other kiss, that in between anticipation captivation; that's where we spark and live some curious lifetime.
An eternity filled of post-coitus, star gazing, memory sharing, silent wondering; talks of travels and heartaches and wishes; of love unrequited, books, completely uninhibited as if we have known each other better than anyone else despite the fact we are near strangers. Some how we are connected through our unshared experiences of heartbreak and disappointment. But all these things that somehow explain what we are - dreamers.
We are not soulmates.
We have a fire that burns in our veins. Passion for every aspect of life where others with their blind eyes and numbed senses can't see how life is a joy that flows through the air around us.
That we few dreamers catch joy like lightning bugs and instead of sticking joy in a jar to suffocate, as others do, we drink deeply and fill our souls.
Instead of this primal kiss- we talk and laugh and share, but never too much. Just skimming the surface. Never to jump into the double Dutch game of kissing, never to play because those with fire in their veins burn the lives around them. They cannot break bread without broken hearts and broken spirits. Of broken selves of anguish when things turn sour. Those who's veins run with fire are doomed to wander all their days, crossing the earth in search of legends - not knowing they are the legends. All the while dragging behind them those who grasp their coat tails and want the passion but never learn to drink from the cup of life. Those who's vein course with fire don't know the fire comes of never being satisfied. Of never being free. Never able to be enough. Never to be normal. Or content. Of being stagnant.
Content is death. And content is why my lips can never touch his, it would break my heart to find instead of fire of one who's soul burns like mine is nothing more than mediocrity dressed as intrigue. So I stay away. I stay far. Just enough to look but never touch.
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Listen to the Casual Reply: A Collection of Short stories
RomanceA collection of stories of what was love, what might have been, what still could be
