In the moment when their lips touch mine, everything else fades to inconsequentiality. As long as we're together, in whatever small way possible, nothing else matters. The only thing in the world is their gentle lips on mine, our scarcely-there touches, our whispered confessions.
It doesn't matter who our family is, who our parents are. When we are together, when it's just us, we are judged on our souls alone, rather than the actions of those who came before us. Our lives are our own in those few precious moments; the expectations placed upon us are forgotten. It's a freedom, a chance to be alive.
It doesn't matter that this relationship isn't perfect, or that maybe it's not even a relationship. It's not a love story that will span generations; it won't stand the test of time. We won't rank amongst Romeo and Juliet, Elizabeth and Darcy, Heathcliff and Cathy. It's secret, hidden; we don't declare it from the rooftops. Yet if this hiding it diminishes it, why is it everything?
It doesn't matter that I'm living off stolen moments, that my life has become an endless loop of waiting for the moment to arise when we can be together, and the fleeting moments when we are. I should feel bad, living for these stolen, secret moments; taking only the times when we are sure that no one will find us, no one will miss us. I know I should hate what we've been reduced to, but those moments are enough to offset anything.
It doesn't matter that maybe we shouldn't be doing this, that maybe this is wrong. There are a million different reasons why we should never have started this, why we can't be together, why no one can ever find out. But there's one solitary reason why we should.
If the world knew, they would be quick to tell us that it's nothing, that it's not love.
And yet, as their lips ghost across my jaw, and pull them tighter into my embrace, I know that it doesn't matter.
If this isn't love, then I'm not interested in finding it.