Have you lead a strange life if I said that your first kiss was not your first love? If I told you that your first kiss was the first time you felt what it was like to live, because your first love is supposed to do that for you isn't it? But your first love was unfamiliar like your life so far--unfamiliar and awkward and painful, like your first period when the pain and discomfort of simply feeling something for the first time did not let you sleep?
Would it be just as uncomfortable to hear that your first kiss was the most un-first-like you have felt with a first in your life? That the touch of those lips, his teeth clinking accidentally against yours, the wild yet subtle leaps of his tongue inside your mouth, and the nape of his neck was the name you put to familiarity and home? That you finally fell asleep that night, all through the night, because the memory of your first kiss made you think that there is a whole world of serenity, acceptance and safety in someone's pair of arms--- that the scent of someone's breath and the conviction of his teeth biting down on your lip breathes oxygen into your lungs, keeps your heart beating, thumping against your chest even when time seems to have stopped still.
Would your world seem like a fragrant, vast valley of roses, dull, wine-red, romantically, fiercely, passionately, deeply red, red roses when you fall into his arms and breathe in his warm scent? And would your life seem worth living if his kiss, his scent, every sinew in his body promises to you that the word happiness will be meaningful as long as he is in your life, as long as those arms keep opening wide for you to fall back into? Would it be strange to realise in that moment that every time we kiss, it feels like our first, and that he is perhaps the last person I will ever honestly love?
"I carry your heart with me. I carry it in my heart. I am never without it. Anywhere I go, you go, my dear. And whatever is done by only me…is your doing. I fear no fate…for you are my fate, I want no world cause you are my world. Here is the deepest secret no one knows. Here is the root of root and bud of bud & the sky of the sky of the tree of life. Which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide. It’s the wonder that keeps the stars apart.
— E.E. Cummings
Would it be just as uncomfortable to hear that your first kiss was the most un-first-like you have felt with a first in your life? That the touch of those lips, his teeth clinking accidentally against yours, the wild yet subtle leaps of his tongue inside your mouth, and the nape of his neck was the name you put to familiarity and home? That you finally fell asleep that night, all through the night, because the memory of your first kiss made you think that there is a whole world of serenity, acceptance and safety in someone's pair of arms--- that the scent of someone's breath and the conviction of his teeth biting down on your lip breathes oxygen into your lungs, keeps your heart beating, thumping against your chest even when time seems to have stopped still.
Would your world seem like a fragrant, vast valley of roses, dull, wine-red, romantically, fiercely, passionately, deeply red, red roses when you fall into his arms and breathe in his warm scent? And would your life seem worth living if his kiss, his scent, every sinew in his body promises to you that the word happiness will be meaningful as long as he is in your life, as long as those arms keep opening wide for you to fall back into? Would it be strange to realise in that moment that every time we kiss, it feels like our first, and that he is perhaps the last person I will ever honestly love?
"I carry your heart with me. I carry it in my heart. I am never without it. Anywhere I go, you go, my dear. And whatever is done by only me…is your doing. I fear no fate…for you are my fate, I want no world cause you are my world. Here is the deepest secret no one knows. Here is the root of root and bud of bud & the sky of the sky of the tree of life. Which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide. It’s the wonder that keeps the stars apart.
— E.E. Cummings
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