A chill still runs down my spine when i remember that kiss. And not the real one, but the one i dreamed up; the one i wished had happened, the one that was perfect, the one that had meant something if only that something was for research, the experiment used and done for a legitimate reason as research. But much like everything the fake one is far more remembered than the real; the one i asked for, the one i asked to have again to help describe to no one. The tale i remember around the real, is far more odd than what had happened.
But somehow, i do not regret the real. It's the dream that makes me not hate the real. We kissed, i asked for another in that moment to help describe it later; in that moment i left my eyes open to burn the segment into the forgettable part of my head.
I told the tale from the part i made up, but both the fictitious and the real stick with me. I would prefer that the tall tale i made for us would stick more.
I love the fake part of us.