The first time you kissed me, we were laying in your bed with you above me and you had been muttering sweet nothings into my ear and against my neck for an eternity. When you made the first move, I was beyond elated. I could still feel all the spots your lips had touched and I felt important and cherished beyond measure. The summer sun spilled through the cracks in the blinds as we tried to avoid the August heat, red-hot like your new hair.

The second first time we kissed, we were sitting in my car with the seats cranked back. The November fog was so thick that I had to drive extra slow, but even then, we had time to spare before I had to drop you off at your aunt’s. The girl you liked so much was being difficult and you two weren’t talking and I honestly didn’t mean to start anything; our lips accidentally brushed while we were in close quarters and neither of us tried to stop. You were so beautiful in the dim light and I remember trying to memorize your face again to no avail. Your eyes would catch the light and I stroked your cheekbones and forehead and chin and nose because there was no way it could really be you back in my arms.

The third first time we kissed, we were blowing raspberries on each others’ skin and you went to blow one on my cheek but missed. I wasn’t sure it had actually happened, but when you ducked back in for another one, I didn’t resist. Your hair slid between my fingers like satin and the heat of your body was comforting in ways that shouldn’t be humanly possible. The December chill kept sneaking under where the blanket would ride up and we would tangle ourselves up in each other after stealing said blanket for a few moments each. Your skin was soft and though you would no longer whisper sweet nothings like prayers into my own skin, I felt wanted and loved and cherished in a way reminiscent of the first time.