When he first kissed me, a needle pierced in my belly.
It never aches in a physical place, like the skin or the stomach. It is a suspended pain, somewhere in the ether of my insides. Like an entity, that is beyond the capture of my physical body, is feeling that love. A dimension above. In another dimension altogether.
A needle like thing was piercing me, in that dimension. I was able to feel that dimension because of his kiss.
I told him I had been kissed before. And they were quite passionate. Much more than his. What I meant was they were very assuring. In that they were full of thrust and force, in the physical body. In their physical use of tongue and lips, powerful and persuasive. Just the way they competed in real world. With persuasion and power to tell me of their superior love.
But when he kissed me, I felt a needle piercing me. A prick leading to a drop of blood. And then some more blood and some more pain. In a completely different realm because the blood came out as words and paintings and rhythms. Never as blood itself.
In the earlier kisses, the pain was distributed only to the place their tongues and lips touched me. Leaving bruises and sometimes even real blood. But this was an internal bleeding, and internal bruising. This was all over my body. I could feel the pain diffusing all over my body. The way invisible gases distribute all over in the room. And liquid water remains on the ground bound by gravity. And a solid ice, remains even more limited, bound by the attraction of its own egoistic identity. The attraction force of its own particles.
But his vaporized love was spreading through me like the discreetly released sarin of a chemical attack. And quietly choking at all my egoistic fears and apprehensions. Putting me to a slumber of love, of peace, of faith. In his arms.
In the beginning I mistook the difference between the physically tangible forms of other kisses and other loves. The absence of color and form of your sarin deluded me into thinking there was nothing there. But it was not until I turned to walk away, that it began showing effects. The strangling, the choking, the breathlessness, loss of neuron cells, an intangible gas causing a tangible death. And I knew. It was you.
Am I too late in realizing this? Was my first question after understanding this third form of love. But I guess after a lot of thinking and wondering and calculating and hoping, reality struck me. I was dying after all. Every single day, losing some of my neurons. Dying to the world I knew. Closing my eyes to the illusions without, to open within me a world of alternate truth. Deeper truth. Where the source of all the muddy rivers existed. Where all waters were pure because everything was pure at its source.
So when this death was already happening, might as well let you know that I was dying. And so I did. I pinged you. Called you drunk. Showed you the bruises the water and the ice left on my body. Told you I feared the same from you and so I kept away. Told you I was sorry.
Told you that I had finally learnt the meaning of the word passion. That it rooted itself in the Latin word passion meaning pain. It was first used in the history of English language for describing what Christ felt when he was nailed to the cross. When he adorned a crown of thorns on his head. Bleeding all over. In pain all over.
But he accepted each drop of blood as a symbol of his love, for other humans, his beloved. It was love dripping the color red that day. And such a pain borne for and out of love, was named passion.
It was not the physical aggression or a bruising emotional liquidity of love. It was an omnipresent breathe of vapor that wholly bruised a human inside out. Not in one or two places, but in each bone, muscle, down to each cell.
And I told you that your first kiss had the truest passion I ever knew.
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