Critics will say that this was merely my "first love." I will be expected to move on quickly, after an "understandable" bout with depression. It will be my duty to be blase about our time together. My duty to remember the sour finish and not the nectar of the first touch. Every kind word, all of the the prolonged glances, the sweaty hands held too tight, will be memories. Memories that are expected to fade with time. Moments in time, once being remembered for safe keeping, will no longer reach the ears of our nonexistent family tree, never planted.
But, how can I smother and stuff all of these emotional recounts away into the category of "first love." When I love, is it not for a life time? Or was I not loving quite hard enough?
No. No, damn it all. My love is real love. My love was taught to me through sturdy grandparents, brought to fruitation through intellect that matched my own, and a wit to surpass me.
My love is sturdy foundation, meant to build upon itself the feeling of acceptance and a mutual respect.
This wasn't my love, though, it was OURS.
I planted the bud, and you watered it. We stood and watched it bloom together.
Who decides what love last?
Ours was just as solid as those I witness at the alter, and we just as scared.
Out union wasn't nasty, at least not more that love should be.
Our love didn't boast, at least not louder than the others.
The lips of our love sang a melody that we danced the harmony too, all into the haze of a Mississippi night.
I was always uncertain, even if you, with out fail, stepped onto the ledge with me. Uncertainty must be a key ingredient in love, for with out it our souls grow into comfort and contempt.
Yet still, with all the unforeboding and ambiguous plans, we aren't loving any more.
My first love.