Lasts are weird. You see, most of us are always looking forward to firsts. The first time we drive a car. The first time we buy a pack of cigarettes. The first time we drink. The first time we kiss someone. The first time we make love to someone. The first time we fuck someone. The first time we say I love you to someone. We are always looking forward to the first of everything with so much anticipation and, in some cases, a great deal of anxiety. But lasts? No one cares about the last of anything, at least not until after they happen. And yet, they are what we remember the most. We remember the last time we hung out with a friend that went away. We remember the last time we hugged someone. We remember the last time we kissed someone. We remember the last time we made love to someone. We remember the last time we held their hand. We remember the last time we looked at them and smiled. We remember the last time you said you loved them, and the last time they said they loved you, too. In the end, the lasts will haunt you, and, yet, when they happened, they were not last. They were just “another.”
I still remember what your lips tasted like that afternoon when I walked you to your car. I remember the cold drizzle falling on me as I stood outside your car and waited for you to pick something on your iPad for the drive home. I remember grabbing the back of your neck to turn your head towards me. I remember kissing you. I remember your warm breath filling my mouth. I remember the texture of your lips. I remember the feeling of your tongue. I remember the kiss so well. I remember it tasted like lemonade. That was the last time I kissed you, and I didn’t know it. It was just another kiss.
I refuse to have lemonade now. I feel like one sip could tear me apart. I miss your lemonade kisses.