Kissing you is like licking an icicle in temperatures below freezing. Somehow I’m stuck, while tasting cold and pain the entire time—but I can’t pull my tongue off yours. Or maybe it’s like those preteens in the movies with the braces and retainers and headgears that get intertwined in their first kiss.
Holding your hand is like sticking two Legos together and then realizing it doesn’t fit the design, but they’re linked to each other so well that no matter how hard I try to wrench them apart, they’ve already formed as one and my 3,417-piece Death Star is two Legos short.
Your touch is the cold water running over a burn. There’s relief in it—but it’s still a burn.