I want to chase myself through his lips. Climb into the knowledge of us that I’m suddenly, inexplicably certain he possesses. I want to burrow into his memories of me. Map my history using the heat of his hands against my skin. I fall and fall. I’m kissing a strange thief in a strange elevator, and I have no idea why except I have every idea why. Because he tastes like comfort and safety. Like fresh laundry from the dryer. A soft couch before a fireplace. A knowing type of exposure that feels like falling, falling.
