She grew up on Disney movies, Jane Austen novels, and romantic comedies. She was disappointed, during her first kiss, to discover that the human tongue felt strangely like a giant slug in her mouth.
I wasn’t lying when I told him I didn’t dance with another man. But he didn’t ask me if I kissed one.
“I hate you,” she whispered, a single tear falling from her eye. “I don’t,” he said before slowly kissing her forehead and walking away.
I leaned over the coffin, my hot tears falling on her cold face, and told her that I loved her.
‘Then kiss me,’ she said.
This post submitted by Mark McAuliffe
The agreement between us was quite clear.
We may kiss anywhere except on the mouth.
So I should have kissed you.
This has only happened a billion times.
I have the tears of a snowman at the kiss of your sun, welcoming your fire with a scarf slipping askew.
When you go, I will be the space left behind, warmed but empty.
I’m not trying to sell you anything she said.
I listened, later kissed her, and in the end, bought.
I kissed her, she kissed back— she tasted of lust. Holding her tight, I began to notice how cold her body was.