There are certain things I remember about my first love
that may also be the only things I remember about my 16th year;
like how she always wore plaid - a dainty
beautiful lumberjack with soft hands.
She understood me in a way nobody ever will again in this life
and I’ve had to accept that like a dull toothache
that only acts up once in a while.
She saw my darkness and always said, “I know you’re gone right now.”
and she would stay and wait patiently
until I came crawling back into her arms.
She looked at me like I was breakable - fragile glass in the palm of her hand
and inevitably I shattered, cutting up her skin - I hurt her
over and over, again and again.
But still, at the end she said it wasn’t really the end;
she wrote something for me:
“…come 5 years or 3 years or tomorrow or whenever, we’ll be together. Yes Jill. Together. You and I (Possibly married).“
There are these familiar differences I take notice of,
like how he always wears plaid, has a beard and arms
that could move mountains and he tries to move them off of me;
he tries to dig me out, pick me up
when I’m lost in the darkness - covered
by the 100 pound blanket on our bed,
but the weight of my mind is too heavy for him.
He looks at me and sometimes he shoots laser beams of love
directly out of his eyes and into my heart
and sometimes it hurts - he ruins me in the best way possible
He took me camping last summer, and we had one of those days;
so beautiful because absolutely nothing happened - we were together.
As the day turned to blue, the sun started to set, he climbed
to the top of a tree, looked down and yelled, “Jill I’m gonna marry you!”
