There were many ways to kiss her.
There was the ordinary kiss; the peck. Simple, frequent, and habitual.
It is reserved for the smaller things in life. When I say good morning. When she hands me a coffee. When she leaves for work.
Other times, I admire her eyes for a while, before I lean slowly towards her. I take my time with this kiss; feel the softness of her lips, the way they move to embrace mine, the way they pull me in. It ends the way it begins—gently, carefully; like a song fading on the radio…
When we could steal away from spying, envious eyes, free from the imprisoning social ties, I would wrap her in my arms, pull her in and push my mouth against her. We would kiss for too long, kiss like it is the only thing we want to do in this otherwise wretched world too lonely to go by without. When we finally break away we would struggle to catch our breaths, like bursting forth the surface of the water after diving too deep into the ocean. A peculiar sense of relief would wash over me, for being alive, then, and for being there, with her, at that moment.
Some days we just walked; by the streets, by the mall, by the beach. Our fingers would wrap themselves together naturally and comfortably; like they were designed as a pair by someone. She would find joy in telling her day as we swung our arms gently back and forth. Losing myself in the beautiful simplicity of it all, I would kiss her in the middle of a sentence. She liked this a lot, I could tell, for she would smile a little shy, and stopped talking. Then, we would continue walking, with a tender silence.
Ah, and finally, there is the imaginary kiss; the only kind I can give her now.