They say kissing is like a dream. Everything is perfect, a moment out of time, spellbound, a fantasy come to life. They are the most exquisite of adventures, making connections and creating scenarios we wouldn’t dare to live. “In your wildest dreams” they say, a testament that a mind can do better than a body, that anything imagined will be better than real life. I say they are wrong. Dreams end and fade, dodging the grasp of fingers they fly on wings of dawn and leave one lonely person to the cold morning. They become memories of events that never happened, and the more they are recalled the more they slip away.



But you, you never fade. When I awake from my most pleasurable dream – one which I am sure featured you heavily – I do not sadden at losing the warmth in my chest that follows every thought of you. All I must do is turn my head and see you there, sleeping soundly, chest rising and falling beneath the blankets. I would not trade the sight of you next to me, the sound of your laugh, the color of your eyes, for any dream. Those who kiss and dream of better have not known the hungry meeting of lips, the reverent touches of shoulders and neck, or the gentle message “I love you” whispered between breaths and on mouths before a crackling fireplace. Or perhaps they have known these things but never from one who’s love shrinks the deepest ocean, one that eclipses the heavens with it’s brilliance. They have not known you or yours.

Because kissing you is like lightning in my chest. Sparks fly from fingertips, electricity in my veins, my heart a conduit pumping arduously, effortlessly, maddeningly. I am full of you, your everything in me and around me. My hands are full of your hips, my chest full of your love, and my head full of your thoughts and yet you press on, giving me more until I cannot distinguish between you and me and I moan out your name like an oath to the sky: “I am yours, you are mine, we are one, kiss me, break me, let your lips trace fire across my skin, write the sigils with your tongue, release me from my corporeal form and let us dance among the stars. They will give us new constellations; by running across the heavens we will carve our own stories, live our own lives, and take shelter from the wrathful outside world.” Your kisses have power, like magic. Entrancing, beautiful, I am lost and I realize that I am not afraid. For if I am to drown, what better place than in your arms?

Kissing you is not like dreaming. Kissing you is a religious experience. And if God finds this displeasing and casts us down from heaven then at least, dear sister, we will fall like angels, comets, crashing through all nine rings of Hell to land on Satan’s throne where you can ravish me with lips hotter than the fire and brimstone of Jonathan Edwards’ imagination. For you cannot sin in dreaming and kissing you is undeniably so. Let God be an angry god; in Hell you will be Queen as is your birthright and I Vassel as is my desire and we’ll kiss, oh how we’ll kiss, and stoke the flames and laugh at anyone who thinks different. They cannot see that you are my new religion.