The Lower Eastern Times Opening The Third Eye
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By: Vincent Mumba,
Our first kiss was an accident—nothing like the kind sung about in love songs. Still, there was poetry in its clumsiness. No romantic sunset, no fireworks, no cinematic slow motion—just the two of us, awkward, laughing, and realizing our mouths had bumped like lost planets. Imperfect, but ours.
That kiss lingered between us afterward, a gentle ghost haunting every meeting. I’d replay it in my mind endlessly—how it was, how it could have been, how it might be again.
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I had kissed before. Some had even kissed me. But with her, it felt like starting from zero. I found myself researching how to do it “right”—watching tutorials, reading essays, learning about the “ice cream technique.” As if love were something you could study. As if kissing followed a formula. But when you care about someone, your mind deserts you. Technique evaporates. You’re left trembling, human.
That day, we were hiking—she in front, me following, watching the wind tug at her hair, admiring how she moved lightly across the rocks. The trail was empty, quiet but for our breathing. She turned suddenly and pulled me into a hug. Her scent filled me—her hair, her neck—familiar yet brand new.
When she stepped back, our eyes locked. I saw it—the silent yes. That unspoken permission hanging between us all day like mistletoe. We’d both wanted it, but neither knew how to begin without breaking the spell.
I looked at her lips; she glanced at mine. The world paused. Every “rule” vanished. We leaned in too quickly, and our teeth knocked—a tiny disaster. We burst into laughter, embarrassed but glowing. She turned to walk off, but I caught her hand, pulled her back into my arms. Time slowed. The air thickened. This time, when we kissed, it was soft and sure—inevitable.
“I’m terrible at this,” I whispered against her lips.
“I know,” she laughed, then kissed me again—slower, deeper—until the joke melted away.
Since then, I’ve kissed her in a hundred small worlds—with KFC still in her mouth, and somehow it tasted heavenly. With dry lips, with lip balm, with chocolate between us. I’ve tasted juice from her lips, kissed her in Ubers, in alleys, in quiet corners. I’ve kissed her through laughter, through moans, through the kind of silence that speaks volumes. I’ve kissed her forehead, her fingers, her nose, her eyes—everywhere that feels like home.
I’ve memorized her taste the way one memorizes fears—intimately, deeply. My lips now speak only her language—the quiet dialect of belonging.
And so I’ve learned: the most romantic first kiss isn’t perfect. It’s awkward, human, real. It’s not fireworks—it’s collision. And that’s what makes it unforgettable. So don’t wait for the perfect moment. Just lean in, even if your teeth get there first. Love will meet you halfway.
