in the L.E.S.

I had contemplated whether or not I was a terrible kisser

as both our faces crashed into one another.

The clicking of our front rows of teeth send an electrical shock

through my brain. I admire that slight pain.

It feels alive.

It feels like something has happened, and although we scrape each others enamel off

in a furious accident.

We're both inebriated, I more than she.

It always feels like the first time as I try to siphon the passion from someone else's lips.

the steam of our heat rising from exposed mouths dissipating into the winter sky.

My lip is bitten over and over and it's incredibly amazing and off setting. Then my ear,

then a nip at my neck.

I am dealing with a pro? Am I a terrible kisser? Oh No!

I am an incredible filth talker, but we're in public, and outside a bar, and it's weird.

My hands begin to travel, and my brain is fighting a clinical assessment with my

kissing style, my raging hormones, and a lack of equilibrium.

the kiss breaks off and small talk ensues.

I don't see her again.

Our passionate embrace stuck in time in the L.E.S.