Amanda Ades is a junior Music major with a minor in English Writing, hailing from Kent, Washington. She is usually found composing music, weaving lyrics, and doodling in every margin her pen comes into contact with.
Ode to Kissing Girls
It starts with four hands— right hand interlocked with left hand, left hand tangled in right. It’s all curling and gripping and swiping thumbs across palms. I love kissing girls who kiss like they’re trying to deposit poetry into my mouth, who daub on deep plummy lipstick rescued from the back of their mother’s makeup drawer: lipstick meant to be kissed off; ruined by friction, melted by heat. I want to kiss you so hard our faces cave in, girls with twitchy lips frozen mid-grin. I love kissing girls who cry when they see roadkill, girls who believe all dogs go to heaven. Frantically stuffing my face with kiss after kiss after fumbling kiss, kissing girls clumsily in the front seats of cars, guiding stray hairs out of half-lidded eyes, molten breath simmering beneath darting tongues. Kissing girls who can’t help but feel guilty afterwards. Still, it is mellow, firm, and fiercely sweet. I love kissing girls where they scowl and frown and cringe and consume and yell and sing and argue and relent. Savoring the taste in the hopes of replicating it later in the kitchen, bundling up a kiss with cling wrap from the cupboard we keep our kiss-preserving supplies in. I’ve trapped kisses in slow-moving resin, tied them up in tough leather drawstring pouches, squeezed them into sausage casing, folded them in tin foil, detained them behind the brass bars of a bird cage, wadded them up in newspaper and crammed them into airtight ziplock baggies. I love the laughter that follows, the hitching of breath like a skip in the track on a silver scratched CD. Kissing girls with good intentions and freckled skin, kissing girls who have never been kissed before. A kiss that trickles richly down my throat I kiss you because I trust you with my spit.