to be kissed by him is to be trudging along a sidewalk in the midst of November, alone, cold, searching in the solemn for something to put an abrupt stop to your melancholy, and allow the coldness to heal the hot blood flowing from your open wounds,

a light blue car passes by you and it's playing the song you haven't heard since you were fifteen and in love, naive and in love, but feeling the warmth that love brings in every molecule in your body, filling your lungs and oxygenating your blood with familiar rhythmic groupings and effervescent notes  

your head lifts from your chest and the blockage from your ear canals drain and suddenly you can hear sounds that perpetually stimulate your heart strings, tugging and pulling, allowing tears to accumulate and flow through your ducts until your universe is no longer recognizable and in a state of nostalgic, aqueous disarray

you wipe the tears from your eyes,
you open your eyes,
you look into his eyes,
and oh god, you can see.