Mr. Feather Lips was a one-night love I’ll never forget.
Maybe it’s already the 17th in France—I'm somewhere between New York and Paris, flying back from a 21-day universe that felt suspended between reality and something more abstract. Caught between my solitude and a deep craving for affection, just when I thought my hands wouldn’t touch anyone else's skin again, something happened. In that absurd and magical second, something sparked. It doesn’t make sense, and it probably shouldn’t have happened—maybe it was just a coincidence.
Like his featherlight lips floating along the back of my neck, right where my innocence never goes, where I make the dumbest decisions. He lingered there for a second, and to protect my sanity, I stopped him. But then he—let’s call him Mr. Feather Lips—kissed me, and I couldn’t find a single reason to part from those lips for the next 12 hours.
He held me like I was some sacred fruit only he knew about, with the kind of passion that made me feel forbidden and untouchable. With our skin pressed together, we messed with time. We condensed an eternity into 12 hours—every kiss, every smile, every glance felt like the last one in our tiny forever.
What if you came at the right moment? Just to remind me of my soul, connected to yours like a dream and a chance intertwined. If tomorrow didn’t exist, we made the present stretch on endlessly in your bed. Twelve hours were enough to make me miss you, to make me crave you.
What if I need a whole lifetime that only your love could create? What if you’ve become so impossible that I’ve opened myself to obsession and idealization? Tell me, God, it wasn’t special. Tell me my love wasn’t meant to last only 12 hours.
Help me, God, decide our destiny. There aren’t enough prayers of gratitude to drown in acceptance of an impossible love. And if I dare—I dare to love him, I dare to destroy everything I’ve known, all in his name. There was so much power in our vulnerability.
The way he rested his head on my chest, listening to my heartbeat, telling me he needed to make sure I was real. The flood of emotions when he cradled my face, kissing every part of me that held innocence and empathy, all while keeping that hint of darkness in his eyes. What if he was both life and death, making a visit to remind me of the luxury of love and the fleeting nature of forever?
Promise me, but never dare tell me I was the "white" in your emotions. I don’t want you to paint me in your mind with bold reds or deep blues. Don’t tell me what to think in case a feeling gets lost in your words. Remember me as I’ll remember you—“A forever that never happened,” which makes us different from the rest.
So one day, when I’m in my 90s and staring down death (hopefully by then), I’ll be able to say I loved someone for 12 hours. And in that eternal moment, maybe we’ll happen again—forever.
