The First

old is new again,
and I’m not sure how
it happened.

Like fate
or kismet
or some kind of coincidence
that can’t be coincidental.

I remember his strong hands,
the arms that held me up,
that pushed me down
and made me feel alive
when I seemed underwater,
when I seemed lost
in trying to learn who I was.

He was the first.

The first man I loved,
the first man I needed,
the first man I lost,

and it’s been so long,
so vastly far between
then and now


it’s as if
there were
no years,
no hours
spent apart
as we speak,

And I can still
smell your skin,
taste your mouth
against mine
even though
the years should have
wiped us clean,
swept us beneath carpets
with life
and memories
and time,

and yet
here we are
in the pools of recollection
so vivid it hurts.


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