I don't remember the last time I kissed her.
It would have been just another kiss on just another day, a mechanical step in the course of that goddamn insignificant day, one without fanfare or regard.
It never occurred to me that one forgotten stage of my daily ritual might be the last time I let her know how much she meant.
If I had known that it was going to be the last time we kissed, would I have done something different?
Lingered longer, tasted deeper, paused before letting go?
I have to believe that it was a good last kiss...
Though I don't remember it, don't remember why I gave it to her, don't remember if it was a worthy final performance before the curtain-call on a relationship cut short.
I want to believe that I lived every moment of the relationship as though it might be the end, and that this impassioned stance is what lets me say now without reservation,
"I did it! I lived without regret! Any kiss could have been my last and any kiss would have been as loving and joyous as a last kiss should be."
But that's not the case.