Our first kiss was crossing California’s fault lines
thinking that we wouldn't fall;
it was an it-just-feels-right, spur-of-the-moment,
it-might-never-happen-again kinda kiss.
Our second kiss was running away from home
to dance under thunderstorms;
gasps lost in a hurricane’s howl
and there we were, in the eye,
figure skaters dancing tentatively on thawing ice.
Our third one was starting to look like a bad decision,
but boy, did we like making one.
Our fourth kiss was still a ***** secret,
but it made me think of strawberries and forevers
and how they tasted so good in your mouth.
Our fifth kiss happened at 8 on a Sunday,
preceding a fight on why platonic people
even think of kissing.
And there I was, wishing you'd stay
and crash your lips into mine again,
but maybe chapped lips and hot breaths
can no longer burn walls.
Our sixth had gaps that almost tasted
like leaving but it lingered,
the way you didn't,
and for the first time,
it was like fitting a piece in a different jigsaw puzzle.
Our seventh was all, desperate and pleading
and memorizing the feel of your lips and chin
and cupid's bow.
Our eighth was an insignia of
all our blunders coming undone.
Our ninth kiss tasted of cigarettes,
and someone else,
and it was the last;
our tenth simply had never come.