I kissed him today.
And a tiny part of me wished that it
would have been you.

Then I remembered that
your fingertips never wrote
novels down my spine
and your voice didn't
sing melodies into my chest.

You never understod
the stories written on my wall
and on my skin.

In that moment,
I realized that we were
a fairytale;
always trying to be something we never were.

But this with him...is real.
And sometimes, it seems,
the better stories are the ones
we write for ourselves.

One.
My first kiss was a country boy.
His dorm smelled like coconut and summer but
three days later, he told me
he didn't want a relationship.
Two days after that,
he stopped talking to me.
He used me.

Two.
I kissed a boy
whose intentions were never
what I thought they were.
He had hands that wandered
and lips that didn't quite fit against mine.
That was our first and last date.

Three
I thought I loved him.
Young and in love, I let him
touch my heart and my body
and I thought we were forever.
But his hands were too big for mine
and he left me, like all the rest.
But I don't miss him.

Four.
Late night Snapchats that led to drunken kisses and roaming fingers. And regret.
I still think about it.

Five.
I was 19,
and he was gentle and slow.
He held my face as if I was porcelain,
beautiful and fragile.
After, he held me close to his chest
and I could hear his heart
beating with mine.
*Perfect fit.