He didn’t kiss me like a movie
scene.
Looking back, I realize he kissed me like a man who was starving. Not with technique or grace, but with a terrifying, honest hunger. I remember feeling his hands shaking in my arms, on my skin, grasping at me like he was afraid I might turn into
smoke.
There were tears in his eyes that he was trying so hard to hide, but the second our mouths met, I felt him
break.
It was like coming home after a
long,
cold trip, that moment you drop your bags and finally collapse. There was no gentleness, just a rough tenderness that said, 'I am finally here, and I am not letting
go.'
It wasn't about fireworks; it was about survival. He kissed me like he was trying to memorize the shape of my mouth before the world could
pull us apart again.
I miss that desperation. I miss the way I was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.
But mostly, I just miss him.
Because for
a man who once kissed me like he couldn't
breathe without me, he has become so incredibly silent.
For The Man Who Couldn't
Breathe without Me
