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to touch with the lips  

Their first First Kiss was a gift. Given with impure motives, and soaked in alcohol and denial, it was nonetheless one of the first pieces of herself she’d ever offered him. He gift-wrapped it in his heart, and cherished it in secret.  

Their second First Kiss was a plea. It cried out his desperate desire for her to see, to feel, to accept. Her lips yielded, but her heart did not. He retreated, clutching the kiss to himself as a reproach, a reminder never to go back. 

Their third First Kiss was a homecoming. He felt his soul flow into her like a river finally reaching the ocean. It was awkward, and they laughed, and the laughter was just a continuation of that kiss and the next, and the next, and the next.  

Their fourth First Kiss was a vow. Chaste and circumspect, it felt holy and solid and enduring. Words like forever and wedded and yours swirled around them as their lips met. He exulted in the witnesses who were there to see his triumph, their triumph, as they sealed their promise with this kiss.

Their first Last Kiss was a farewell. Tired but not afraid, he looked up at her and felt her lips, still warm but no longer as soft, as they pressed against his. So many kisses, it was hard to believe that this was the last. As he drifted away, though, he realized that it wasn’t. He smiled. Wherever he was going, she was sure to follow.

Until then, he would wait for their next First Kiss.