The first time we kissed
tasted like hope.
The beginning of something magical; slow dances,
new promises,
hazy lazy Sunday mornings,
electricity,
beautiful.
I could have lived off that taste.
The second time we kissed
tasted like forever.
It was going to last, I knew it.
I would make sure of it.
This was it; a big house,
an even bigger family,
family parties and new furniture and fights that ended in even more kisses, more fucking.
I always chose arguing with you over loving anybody else.
Every kiss,
every day,
tasted so familiar
and sweet.
I had your smell on my lips,
your taste on my tongue,
your heart in my hands.
The last time we kissed tasted like goodbye.
And nothing else.
Nothing
at
all.