Collection of Recollection, Part VIII: Inebriated 2.0

these pieces were written in order for me to be able to completely flush you out of my system.
it worked.

the first time you kissed me, it was a hurried kiss--as if you were afraid if you didn't consume the moment, everything that we had done up to that point would disappear and we had to start all over again.

the time after that, it was all soft and forgiving. you allowed yourself to be vulnerable in front of me. the best kindness that you had given me that day. 

my expectation for the third kiss was that it would be like me riding a bike for the first time, with training wheels attached. a learning moment for me, but perhaps for you it wouldn't necessarily be, and you would require more patience and understanding than what you have generously given me before.

while the kisses after that wouldn't be able to be counted since, by default, the excitement would recede and sexual intimacy would increase. these kisses would be different, and from each one I'd learn new things.

and there would be a type of kiss that we both would hate. the type that would end it all, whatever it is.

but your kisses—your mercy—only worked for one night
and now, all I could ever hope to receive from you is understanding, giving up our sense of intimacy and kindly retaining your distance.
— one merciful night, nothing more

even with my mind,
all lust-clouded
intoxicated;
I always knew,
just like you,
that bottle of wine
was never mine
— (un)possessing

you do not want brutal things—
like falling in love,
clinging your soul to mine,
or maybe needing me,
yet you are giving me
the most ruthless
of them all:
a glimpse of something great
that could only exist in
both of our wanting eyes
and our needing minds
— collecting your empty promises

maybe this is how
it feels like to have
your soul caressed,
your mind rested, and
your figure taken care of.
maybe this is what
it feels like to have
someone at my disposal
heeding all of
my wants and needs.
this is how it feels
to have this
temporary thing,
something that
life has deprived me of
— our non-date

stealing you for a night,
wishing you were mine to hold tight,
drowning out noises in my head,
collecting enough of your stories to be read,
wanting to be drown in it,
knowing that you wouldn't submit to colliding our orbit,
being unapologetic for asking what I wanted,
accepting the fact I'd always be haunted.
— disassembling

by blurring the lines
between nothing
and something,
you've taught me
something entirely new;
something I hadn't thought
I'd get from you:
loneliness borne
out of learning that
both of us has
the ability to connect
without necessarily
establishing the connection
— almost

thanks to you,
I'm inspired to write more:
more heartbreaks,
more almosts,
more unfinished tales,
more what ifs,
though they're nothing new
—  history

well... almost.