In a world where I kiss you first

Salted butter on sourdough bread. Feeling the rich creaminess of the butter and the tanginess of the bread cutting through the smooth fat.

Us sitting on the couch, the living room illuminated by the glow of Westworld, the sounds of galloping horses and gunshots filling up the room. Our knees touching, tingling, enjoying the warmth radiating off of each other. 

There's a stiffness in my movements. Hesitation in the air. Uncertainty. 

What if I kissed you? 

What if I grabbed your face in my hands and run my fingers through your hair? 

If I put my body on yours and tasted the warmth of your breath, the remnants of cold butter on warm sourdough. 

If I let my insecurities go? Would you want me more? Would I want you less? 

The insurmountable relief when you took my hand and intertwined your fingers through it. The familiarity and the ritual of the chase. The feeling of acceptance that swarmed over me. My feelings weren't unrequited. 

Thank you.

For kissing me.