I wish You had never kissed me. It was cold outside and You held me by the waist in a touch that felt more than I was prepared for. I don't know if I ever told You this, but I panicked in that moment. I wish that time had stood still, right as You leaned in, and I would have had the sense to shake my head in better judgement. I could have walked away and given that terrifyingly thrilling knot in my stomach time enough to untangle itself. I could have looked at You with hooded, alcohol-laden eyes and decided against it. I may have cupped your face, frozen in that perfect instance just before we lock eyes in full acceptance of things done with ease, and whispered that I will probably regret not having kissed You. But then I would have moved away, broken that silence, and left You standing alone on that balcony. If I had done that, things would have been so much easier for me now. Because I don't believe in love at first sight, but I believe that you can look at someone from across a room and know instantly that they will matter to you.
Because You must know that the way You kiss someone, the way You trace your thumb lightly against their jaw and bring them towards You, is as effective as it is unmistakable. You must know, even if You would never admit it now, that leaning in and pulling me closer was an act of conquering.
I will not deny that, before You pressed your lips into mine, I was interested in You. I was fascinated by the quietness that lay there, I wanted to be the one to peel away the shadow of You. But after we crossed that invisible line that was drawn between us, after we tore down whatever pretend wall we had constructed, I was infatuated by Your very being. In a way that I cannot explain, I became intoxicated by the very feeling of You. The way Your fingers felt woven between my own, the way Your lips felt against my sensitive skin, the way Your hips pressed into mine in a touch which only implied what it longed to scream - it was something that I craved and could not replace or recreate. And now I am beholden to it, dependent on its constant affirmations. This feeling of wild youth and of reciprocal desire that says I Need You and Please Need Me Too, all at once. It has become a source from which I must feast greedily, or waste away in insatiable hunger. I am struck with the fear that it must be unsustainable, that there is nothing which is given so readily in such generous quantities. It seems only logical that it should eventually cease. Only then will I be faced with the full repercussions of yearning for something so much, of longing so impatiently, of being desperate in a way that I cannot be bothered hiding.
But You have kissed Me. You have shown me that there is something better, something greater, something which makes all other touch feel rough and ignorant. You have promised me something which You could easily revoke, something which You could give or take with the carelessness of a child. And I say You Should Not Have Kissed Me with the same carelessness. There is a part of me which resents You for having given me this, because I now hold a steady weakness in the face of You taking it away some day.
But of course You should have kissed me, of course I am glad You did it, but in admitting that I must acknowledge just how much I have become dependent on it - how much I now need to be kissed again, and again, and again.