Kissing at the Bus Stop

And the beauty of losing someone

There’s a difference between kissing and kissing. Many people talk about how there’s something more, something real that is born when you kiss someone you love in comparison to just a one-night stand or an intoxicated make out sesh. This doesn’t seem completely true; I’ve shared many kisses and other acts of intimacy with one singular person. That’s a lot of passion I put into someone, and a lot that got put into me. But that passion didn’t look the same for the three on and off years we dated. It morphed into an ever-developing object, whatever that may be, and it was marvelous to watch it unfold. It was a bundle of one-night stands and drunken kisses that spiralled into true love making and sober pecks. Sober pecks like the very last time I walked him to the bus stop in July.

I still remember the duality of our first kiss compared to our second, and even the ones after changed tremendously. Our very first kiss was awkward, it was in a hot tub and at the time, we weren’t even dating. He asked me if I’d ever kissed someone before, and in shaking my head, our lips collided hard and unsteadily. It lasted a few seconds, and I didn’t kiss back. I didn’t know how to; but I knew I felt something. He pulled back and apologized as I got out of the water, the winter air piercing my wet skin. The kiss lingered in the air for months later.

Our second kiss was much different. It was a more tangible and storytelling kiss, and it was backed up with a real date. My first date with him. We had just walked back from a picnic, and I was wearing this navy-blue embroidered dress that he’d never seen me in —I still have it, the waist strap is broken. He had a white button up and dress pants on. I always asked him to wear button ups more often after that night. We kicked off our shoes and danced clumsily to an Ed Sheeran song we despised. It was actually a nice song; we were just haters because we were thirteen and hated any and everything.

He whispered sweet nothings in my ear, things I don’t even remember today but know existed. The kiss was softer than the first time. His hands brushed my collarbone and crept up my neck as he breathed into my mouth. I tried to kiss him back, and it worked; sort of. His lips were chapped and warm and I loved every minute of it. He walked me home late that night, freezing temperatures in the middle of summer made our breath bounce off the street lights. I was sweating with the lingering kiss, his cherry chapstick imprinted in my skin. The cold couldn’t find its way inside me and it lasted me well into the night; keeping me hot in my bed. I remember wondering if he felt it too.

I grew to love every bus stop and every bus we went on; just the same as I went on to despise them. We shared so much on the bus. We gave each other everything and it took me months to fall in love with these stops again. But a part of me admires this back and forth. I am so lucky to have loved someone so much that I can barely stand to be at the bus stops in my hometown. I am blessed to not be able to sit in the back of the bus alone because when I do, I remember, and remember, and remember. I remember everything that has ever happened, every happy memory that I was able to make there.

That in itself is one of my most treasured accomplishments, and I have finally soothed the ache in my heart that yearns to relive those moments; having them was more than enough and I’m excited to go home and ride the bus again –especially if it’s by myself.