The Kiss

15 days sober

I don’t miss you, or him, or anyone in particular. But my god, I miss being kissed. I miss being kissed by someone who loves me, who I love equally in return. I miss real kisses, passionate kisses, little kisses, Sunday morning kisses, silly kisses, haven’t-seen-you-for-a-whole-week kisses. The kisses that I receive now mean nothing. These kisses are false. There are no substance to these kisses. And the sadness that I feel by knowing that these kisses mean nothing far outweighs any momentary pleasure that occurs in the second that my lips meet those of a man who I will later discover does not care about me at all. Sometimes I already know that they don’t care about me and yet I still let them kiss me. And that is perhaps the saddest part of it all. I just miss being kissed.