This is your first kiss, the second, and quite possibly the fourth. The third was too sloppy, the fifth too brief. The sixth you avoided. The seventh you imagined. This is when the kisses grow infrequent. They wear away, leaving you with their ghostly imprint, a pressure that still warms your chest and stings your eyes. Cry, if you must. Weep, if you wish. But when the eighth kiss arrives, I promise you that the impossible will happen. Two horizons will meet, skies will rain stars and the sun will rise from the west. Your heart will leap to your throat. And just like that you'll float up, up and away.