Why Didn’t You Kiss Me?
I stood there before you.
My heart pounding. Head giddy. Waiting. Hoping. For what I thought was about to happen between us.
My pounding heart was in my hands. I stretched it out to you for you to take it, this heart of mine. It wasn’t in perfect shape, not in the least, but it’s all the heart I had. The only. I couldn’t borrow anyone else’s coz I figured they needed theirs. So I took this one. In all its brokenness and I offered it to you.
Because I wanted you to have it. It wasn’t much. And I’m sure you’ve had hearts in better shape offered to you over time. But this was my heart. For some reason, imperfect as it was, I thought it would mean something to you.
And it was beating too. Healthily. Or healthily enough. Or as healthily as a once-broken heart could beat. I could hear the beat. And, I’m sure, so could you.
So I stood there in front of you. Heart in hand. Hand outstretched to you. Waiting for you to take it and make it yours. Was I sure about this? Fuck no. But I was going for it anyway.
Granted, maybe with a head like mine, I wasn’t really sure of what I was doing. But every part of me was cheering me on. Every inch of my body wanted me to do this. My heart was ready to leave the comfort of its cage and reside with you. So I listened. And I obliged.
My lips, they were loving this. And they had plans of their own. They too wanted me to do to them what I was doing to my heart. They wanted me to offer them to you. They wanted to be merged to your lips. My boobs were screaming to come into contact with your chest and your hands and your tongue. Not necessarily in that order. “Do it. Do it. Just fucking do it,” was the chant. Not a single part of my body wanted to be away from you.
And so I offered myself to you. Shamelessly. Unafraid. Daringly. I said, “What’s the worst that could happen? I want this. I want him.”
Because I had never wanted anyone as I wanted you. And I’d been alive for a long time. Maybe more than half my lifetime, who knows? And I’d been in relationships before. With good men and bad men. Men who took a piece of this heart and others who didn’t even come close. But I had never wanted any of them the way I wanted you.
And I said to myself again, “I’ll be damned if I don’t get to know how it feels to kiss this man.” I lied to myself and said, again, “Maybe my raison d’etre was to encounter this man and to kiss this man, and then to die.”
Was I stretching it? Maybe just a whole lot.
Because I imagined that it would be magical, and beautiful, and sparks would fly, and we would float in the air, and mortals of the earth would genuflect before us to honor the magic that we would have created. I imagined that my pounding heart would be heard on Mars and the rhythm would be used as the soundtrack for some legendary rom-com many, many, many years to come.
And our story would be written for future generations to read. Juxtaposed with Romeo and Juliet’s story of heartbreak and death (Oh, please! What’s that in comparison?) will be our story of magical love and magical kisses and mending of once-broken hearts.
I imagined so many things.
And I went so far ahead of myself.
Because as I stretched out my hands, I realized that they were getting tired. I was holding my heart out and it was growing cold. I still couldn’t understand why I was feeling what I was feeling. I was not even sure if this was anything worth anything.
I waited for you to walk up to me and move your lips towards mine. I waited for you to whisper an, “I love you,” into my lips before touching them with yours. I closed my eyes. Pressed my eyelids tightly because I was so afraid.
As I waited, I hungered.
My neck got tired of staying upturned. My hands got tired and fell to my sides, dropping my heart in the process. You could say I broke my own heart. My mouth dried up. Tears formed inside my eyelids and pressed against my closed eyes.
I couldn’t open my eyes, because the tears would gush out and you’d see them. And where is the dignity in that?
So I kept my eyes tightly shut.
I was afraid this would happen. But I was brave to have come here anyway.
I wanted to ask questions. Why didn’t you kiss me? Why didn’t you love me? Or why couldn’t I feel your love? Why didn’t I just grab your neck, bring your face to mine, whisper an, “I love you,” into your lips, and then take the kiss that I wanted so much? Why didn’t I just open my eyes and let you see my tears?
I know the answer to each of those questions. Because when I thought there was something for me here, I really liked it here. But there’s really nothing for me here. I will therefore pick up my heart and put it back together.
The tears will flow, some days more than others. This body will ache for you, some days more than others.
I have my work cut out for me. To delicately patch this heart up. To, when it’s functional again, offer it to someone else. Maybe with a kiss and an, “I love you.”
If I’m lucky, they will want it, and they will claim it.