KISSING PRISON

So i’m in Kissing Prison. A term thrown at me through a voice note with Laura as she responded to my gooey gushing about my new boo. ‘Omg i’m so happy you’re in kissing prison!!!!’. What started off as a joke has now seeped into every part of my being as I prepare for valentines day (as a lingerie maker not a lover) while being in love (and not heartbroken) for the first time in many years.

Lock me up and throw away the key.

My way of life is romantic. Everything is romantic. But not in a Charli XCX holidaying in Sicily with her rich tattooed man kind of way, but in the way I perform my daily rituals. Everything is decanted (you will never spy a lemon still in it’s yellow plastic netted prison atop my kitchen counter). Sheets are embroidered with love notes. Tiny bowls contain tiny snacks that could be mistaken for puddles of beads or other such nick-nacks. Fairy lights, photos and books - a messy girl aesthetic but everything is curated. Classical music plays while I shower. You will NEVER see a main light on unless it’s an emergency (and even still, something pretty awful would have to have happened to condone the ceiling bulbs lighting up the room). Things have to look beautiful to belong in my space. Even if it’s cluttered and dusty. It’s my clutter and my dust - other people’s clutter and dust, no thank you. Flowers and trinkets. A morning winter candle etc etc... So when real life romance comes into my life in the form of a real life human person I try my hardest not to be earnest because the romance is built so deep into my soul.

And so kissing prison….

Potentially the most perfect description of falling in love, for me, when everything has to have an edge of silliness. I don’t want to TMI everyone who ask me how I am - so I just tell them “i’m in kissing prison”. They either get it or they don’t. It’s silly and a bit stupid. What’s kissing prison? You got locked up for too much kissing?

It’s accidentally getting yourself all riled up before bed from too much giggling. It’s the feeling when no kiss is deep enough you want to crawl up inside them and eat up their heart. It’s the feeling when they’re in the room you don’t even need to see them to feel their presence. Strange telepathy and long gazes. Plans being made for hypothetical futures. Hands searching in the duvet cover. Their eyes are your prison. Bed is our prison.