The world celebrates your dying and you are licking the snow off your lips. and spraying your dirty socks with perfume. You feel hot, snow as it rolls off your lips. The sun is burning through the black shirt you wear the first time you kiss a girl. You are disappearing through headlights dispersing into rainbows when she catches you by the palm of her hand. Your curly hair trickles out from under your hijab from a blast of wind. She pulls it, not the wind but your hijab, forward to cover you but her fingers lingered, on your forehead, her touch was divination. When her eyes met yours, you wanted to say leave. Leave with me and let us build a home together. Instead you reach for her fingers on your forehead and touch them to your lips. The headlights you had forgotten start to inch closer, threatening to burn you both with their colors. She moves closer to you, close enough for the light to reach you both at the same moment. But you want to live, so you reach for her first. Your lips touching hers lightly like how the first beings on the moon must have felt, great to even take a little step. The snow again on your lips in the sun, with you in your black abaya watching sunflowers. The sun on your back, the blackcurrant juice of her mouth in your mouth, the barbecue sauce and the coca-cola flavored mentos she just had on your breath; you taste of the perfume on her neck. The first time you live, there is death, heat, live terror.