I want you to kiss me harder than all the times you’ve looked in the mirror and seen all the She loves me not petals reflected back at you. Kiss me like this is the last day we have on earth, like the apocalypse is coming and all we can do is sit naked in the kitchen and eat cold cereal while we wait for the fires to come and burn down the houses and the apartments with teenage couples still in them. I want you to tell me what your first text message to her was like, what her reply was, what it felt like to press the send button without spell-checking first.
Every fortune teller will check your pulse and tell you that fucking someone doesn’t take the pain away unless you fuck the wrong person. You could get that advice for free. Some day I’d like you to put your finger on your own pulse instead and count how many times it throbs and then multiply that by 3,500 and add 309,000 and you still wouldn’t come even close to how badly I want you.
See, I went to your house once and your mom opened the door and said you were asleep, but when I went up to your room you were lying on the bed with your eyes open listening to all your favorite mixtapes. I remember when you showed up at my doorstep two years ago with a stack of CDs. Let’s record our hearts beating in unison and play the tape over and over again on repeat until the sound burns into our brains. I’d loop the sound of your breath on my iPod if it meant being able to feel your exhalations underneath my skin.
In psychology there’s a certain phenomenon that babies who are separated from their mothers will still be able to recognize their mother’s voice when reunited up to ten years later.
I think that even if you and I were separated by a continent or two, we’d still find a way to get to one another again.