when I was eight and he was nine
we shared the sweetest of first kisses
i was the princess.
he wielded a sword better than any knight in any realm
known by man.
on the kind of balmy june afternoon that begs for adventure, bathed in sunlight and
perfumed with lilac scented promise, he rescued me.
from a dragon-dog guarded tree castle where he promised to love me
for as long as a nine year old is able.

the next time we kissed was in that same treehouse, sold by the princess to an alien tribe.
i was the alien commander. he was a human freedom fighter.
no love lost between those two but what can i say?
sometimes intergalactic passions run deep. and i learned that some kisses are promises. others are exclamation points on the endcaps of frustration, irritation and lust. they may not be as sweet but they're thrilling and theytaste great in their own right. sorta like cinnamon and licorice and cold late-spring eveningtime air.


for a summer we were kissing buddies, the best kind of young lovers. restless souls who wandered the world in two big backyards, conjuring enemies to fight and big loves to experience in each other. it was great.


until
the one battle that was his and not mine. the dark and unfair villain who came and stole my knight away. one little tumor. and my prince was slain. When I was eight. And he was nine.