My first love was never a boy or girl or person stuck in between,

It was never, mom or dad, brother or sister,

Learning companionship through other humans.

It was a bit abstract,

A distanced whisper in my ear, crashing me to smiling tears,

None having been revealed.

I fell in love with a season,

With no reason,

For even an entire season.

But rather a standard of weather,

Which knows me not much better as I am an outsider,

Being buried beneath six feet of snow,

With a warm kindling fire inside, a window I only peep in,

I feel no cold, only smile,

I only wish,

I only pray,

I only dream.

Of blue skies, of endless weeks,

Of absolute nothing made into everything,

By one glance from here to nowhere, it is popular to stare.

With no real connection or care, because for once, nobody else is there.

I cannot tell you the name of my first love,

Whispered between dandelions once licking my toes,

Now on a lawn’s death row.

It is nobody,

Who is everybody and everything,

Of which I find myself happy and sad at the same time,

Trying to figure out for an entire life.

Do not mistake this for sickness, a form of self torture,

But rather release,

Entrapment that frees me in my most private corners.

It is bliss,

Falling into love like this,

Something unable to be measured

But not a soulless abyss, rather a silent therapeutic kiss.

A kiss that still scars my lips,

Even though I could never touch,

But rather be surrounded by such a love,

That is tangled up in non-comprehendible imaginations.

The imaginations of children who never stayed young

And elderly who not once aged past five,

This all must seem a mess to that I will honestly confess,

But to define such a love as this would be pure madness.

First love is never just a one night stand,

But a lifetime sculpted in a god’s hand,

Something I find inescapable

But will always…always…always,

Run back to yet again.