Anyone can steal a kiss on the lips. I’ve grown so accustomed to men leaning in that I’m practically numb to the sensation. A kiss on the lips is almost cliché to me. There is no spark when his lips reach mine. I see no fireworks. I can kiss a man on the lips and forget all about him the next day. 14-year-old me would be disappointed. 22-year-old me says, “Hey! This is what my twenties are supposed to be like! Fuck off, 14-year-old me!” Maybe I just take them for granted. After all, it is just a kiss. So to all the boys I’ve kissed before: I’m sorry for playing with your mind, but I won’t break my back for you.
But a kiss on the forehead could make me fly. You’re looking beyond my body, reading more than the words off my lips. You’re appreciating my mind, cherishing my intellect. You’re honoring the light in me, just as I will do with you. You’re not lusting after me. Your lips on my forehead aren’t asking me to follow you into the bedroom. You’re not undressing my body, you’re unraveling a different part of me; inviting me into that same part of you. That’s where I get my thrill. That’s where my adrenaline stems from. Anyone can steal a kiss on the lips. But the man who rests his lips on my forehead can have my heart forever. And his lips on mine will only taste that much sweeter.