Maisie
I tasted the salt of tears on his lips. Mine, his? I couldn't tell.
His hands tangled into my hair, and then over my face, as if he were trying to memorize the shape of my cheeks, my nose, my jaw. He kissed me harder than he ever had, taking my breath and foregoing his.
It was deep and agonizing, every brush of his lips, every touch of his fingertips admitting more words to me than he had since I walked into his home.
I sobbed into his mouth, grabbing his shirt tighter as I hurled him impossibly close, needing him more desperately than I needed to breathe.
"Please," I whimpered against his lips, and he swallowed the plea with his tongue sliding into my mouth, seeking to taste me.
There was hunger in the slide of his tongue against mine, the clumsy clinking of our teeth, but more than the hunger, there was so much pain, so much longing, so much uncertainty, and grief.
Like this was the last time.
He was kissing me goodbye.
