I was going to kiss a beautiful boy. First I held his hand, and then I thought of love. There was undoubtedly, a love I deserved more than anything, a senseless feeling lost and then slowly built up, the chaotic beat, drenched in little subtleties. There was a kiss in the air, first, a coddling that wrapped us when least expected and most needed, a struck, a blow, a momentous occasion for a life, any life. But when I leaned over, and felt the scent of his wonder, the ticklish masquerade, a dance wrongly stepped, I died, and there was no more.
I was going to kiss a beautiful girl. When I met her, I tilted my head back and forth, from side to side, and when I fell in love with her, I said so many things, some beautiful, and some strange, so that she would smile one of those smiles that were often entrenched in dreams, which one could imagine and fall in love, even with a mirage. She nodded accordingly to all my words, and though I was not pretty myself, I was plenty charismatic, and put my shaking hands on her face, and leaned over, and then, I strangled myself, and I kissed nothing.
I was going to kiss a beautiful man who I knew long ago as a woman. This time, however, there was a happiness in him that he couldn’t contain, a spirited liveliness that went beyond just existing and being happy, but that made every step he took, and every wink he gave me, and every laugh, even the bad ones, a beautiful memory, a souvenir for a lovestruck brain. Sometimes I would watch him driven by an absolute madness, just to see what distortion was going to be born from his face, just to see it slowly, beautifully transform into something gorgeous, something that my fingers caressed tenderly. I wanted to kiss him, and I tried, but as soon as our breaths met, I felt it the pull of my own suicide, from the heart, to the stomach, and I died, and I never saw him again.
I was going to kiss a beautiful woman who I knew long ago as a man. She held me, though I was scared, scared of being hurt with the penalty of death, and the more I existed, the more I heaved and grew out of my own fantasies. I wanted to love, but I was living a lie, and I couldn’t lie to myself, that I wanted love, absolute, cute, warm, and immaculate, and I was never going to get it. So she held me tight in a darkened room and assured me, in whispers, always in whispers, as she kissed my head, and my neck, that I was going to learn to love, even if it wasn’t with her. I cried, I wailed, and I screamed as silent as I could, just so she would know that I loved her, like I had loved many others. And I wanted to believe her, and I wanted to kiss her, so I did both, and I died again a fool.