#feeling is first

Yesterday evening, Chris Chow finally got to kiss the man of his dreams, and now this evening he’s going on a date with him and the woman of his dreams. He doesn’t know how he managed to get so lucky. He also doesn’t know why he did this to himself. He’s currently in his room trying on his third outfit, trying to impress the girl he’s been with for three years, and the boy he’s known for just as long. Logically, he knows that he could show up in his usual Sharks hoodie and sneakers and they would love him just the same, but this feels heavier somehow, more important. He knows that Derek and Caitlin will get along just fine and that takes some of the weight off of his shoulders, but he can’t help but freak out about everything else. What if Caitlin isn’t as okay as she thought? What if Derek isn’t? What if HE isn’t? What if they can’t work it out, or they can’t all get along or--

He looks at the mirror, disappointed with his latest pick on top of everything else, and promptly throws himself on the bed with a groan. He feels his phone vibrate from somewhere under his torso and reluctantly rolls over to grab it, answering when he sees that it’s Caitlin.

Chris lets Lardo lead him to sit with the others, and he fist bumps Shitty before dropping down next to Nursey and bumping him with his shoulder. They all exchange pleasantries, asking about school and responsibilities and relationships, giggling all the while. They haven’t offered Chris a hit yet but he doesn’t mind much; he’s happy riding the high from his victory and his friends’ intoxicated joy. He watches as Shitty takes a final hit from their bowl and Lardo opens her container, confirming Chris’s suspicions of the contents. She passes it over to Shitty who pulls out a few buds, a wrap, and a grinder, before looking up at Chris and grinning.

The last time I opened my old pink and orange polka-dotted umbrella, my gently worn heart also sprang open and kissed you.

And it changed your mind— at least about walking me to my car, at least for a minute— and we were close together and joking and out of the rain.

The first kiss was a choice. The second was a delicious impulse, perhaps from the part of me that knew already.

Your fingers are still pressing into my right hip. We know you liked it— at least for approximately forty seconds.

"I don’t believe in umbrellas," you said before leaving into the dark, steady drizzle.

Me, I believe in umbrellas, and insurance, and yellow lights.

I am usually careful and bet almost sure. Your grinning eyes asked me to up the ante. Your lips dared me to double-down.

But your brain— your umbrella-averse cerebrum— wants to flirt but not feel, won’t avoid the raindrops, but would rather not kiss among them or anywhere (with me anyways— I do not rule out that some other cresting wave might knock you off your knees into the tide).

I forced you to scribble a napkin-back calculus— turns out I’m not worth it to you. I wish you would check your math, or, better still, break your pen and just feel those two smiling kisses and the laughing by the moon and that it can be easy.

Now one conversation and kiss is not flowing to possibly another, is not following some slow course— that of course might be dammed at any point— towards seeing if we are able to slip into each others’ comfortable ways of functioning.

since feeling is first who pays any attention to the syntax of things will never wholly kiss you; wholly to be a fool while Spring is in the world my blood approves, and kisses are a better fate than wisdom lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry —the best gesture of my brain is less than your eyelids' flutter which says we are for each other: then laugh, leaning back in my arms for life's not a paragraph And death i think is no parenthesis

e.e. cummings