This one was different. Not the kind of different you hear about from Hollywood. Not the kind of different that’s only in fairytales, where the farm hand has a heart of gold and the duke wants to steal the maiden’s gold. No; not this time. This was a bad different. But one that felt…so good, so right, one that simply couldn’t be ignored. He may have been the cast to her broken heart, but I suppose we’ll never know.

The first one’s kiss tasted sweet. Sweet to match his chocolate eyes, sweet to match the music that he created, sweet to match the tenderness of his heart. But his sweets belonged to another, who turned and bloodied his back.

The third one’s kiss was nothing particular…almost bland to the taste. But his was warm and comforting and addictive to taste…he drew her in with lips like roses coated with the ashes of a smoked off drug. He kissed her once…then again…and again…and again…and again…he drew her in, he coaxed her and drew her close to him, letting his fingers gently pull her chin, her hands…and he left her when he had healed her and when he was breaking, and she returned to save him with his own poisin.

The second one’s kiss was the different one.
How so different was his.
It drew her in...or perhaps it was her broken heart...but her drew her in and she backed away into the sweet lies of his persistence. And she gave him her all, every last drop of loving, anguishing blood, and she left him without a clue, without a sign, without a hope...

And yet, his was different.
But that’s all that should rightfully be said.