To describe his kiss would be the same as uncovering a magic trick. It would soil the memory and render it invalid. But I think about his first kiss. Often. I remember his lips and the anticipation just before his skin touched mine. My hands were buried in the back pockets of his jeans. His hands were around my waist. Our upper bodies were touching, and I was afraid he would feel my erratic heartbeat through our layers of clothes. I closed my eyes, trying to enjoy his kiss with all my senses. I made mental notes and stored them away for later. But no, I can’t describe his kiss. Not the way his tongue touched mine, not the way I felt the intensity of it travel through my entire body. My knees were barely able to keep me upright, and my fingers massaged his butt through his pants. I will not tell you about the moan that formed in my throat as I gave myself to his kiss. No, because if I described his kiss, I would break the spell and… Oh!