I hadn't seen him since he got married.
But here, while we are alone, he tasted exactly as I remembered. Muscle memory dictating our limbs and orifices. We want this. We want more. We want to remember how good it felt. How important we felt. Important? No, maybe just "wanted" for giving "THE wanted" kisses. Hell, something this good, this simple, why shouldn't we indulge?
The sharp inhale was the sound of a broken kiss. Like a sudden shower. It was cold. Alarming. Unwelcome. No, we hadn't gone thatfar yet. Something awful stopped us mid-breath. Something angry and ugly with grief. Of dear ones _____ if another kiss happened. And the _____ , we sensed, was going to overbalance.
We had to break up. We did break up. When we got on separate trains, back then and this time, it was not for of lack of wanton. No, no, the kisses said plenty for abundant love and lust, reserved.
It's something else. Something sadder. Irrevocable. Finished. Gone. Inarguable. Like a death. Or a fetus. No more. No more. I love you. Yes, I still do. Always will. Never again.
(YES, OF COURSE THIS IS FICTION, YOU NUT! WHAT'D YOU THINK?!)
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