I went and saw Watchmen tonight, even though I couldn't really afford a ticket.

It was good and terrible and made my heart hurt and my stomach hurt and my brain hurt.

And yet, I felt full, like I'd just eaten an enormous slice of life.

It made me miss first kisses. The kind of first kisses that lead to something more, and not the kind I tend to run away from.

The look, first. The glance to check the heat in your partner's eyes.

Then the touch. Hand on a hand, perhaps, or hand to arm. Perhaps cheek to cheek, a velvet brush of scalding flesh and desire.

Then the kiss: a quick touch of the lips, breath held in quivering limbo, gauging, gauging.

Hands to face, thumbs hooking the jawline, kiss deepening to tongue and teeth raking bottom lips. Hips brush hips, curve fitting curve.

But the part that made me miss first kisses the most, was the dual outlet of hot breath as the kiss blossoms, when the doubt of your partner's interest crumbles and you no longer worry about breathing on them.

I don't know why that specifically made me miss first kisses, but it did.

It made me hope the cute British boy from archery last Wednesday shows up again (though I doubt; I think I scared him off with my aggressive flirting).

It made me want to call up my buddy from Red Deer, and see if he'd come down for a visit.

I mean, it's not really the same with him. I can get a first kiss out of him every time, because he's so nervous around me (which I will never understand since we've been friends for years; the only thing that has changed is the physical boundaries).

But...as we lay in my bed, slicked with a fine mist of post-coital sweat, I know he does not love me.

Not that way.

He likes me, sure. And I like him. There's a solid mutual respect thing going on.

He takes the razor edge off the blade that is my passion. He tides me over until I can rake my teeth over the lower lip of my next significant other. He takes the red hot iron of my heart out of the fire for a little while, so I don't melt with the fury of my own desire.

But he does not quench my thirst, not entirely.

It means I do not do stupid things, though, but I still ache at the vacuum left in my chest.

Ah, well.

I suppose that's life, right?

.

Rosie.

Before&After