For this Valentine’s Day week I wrote up short sketches of the seven girls I have loved. This is the first.
I had a number of crushes before her, including one that was overwhelming. But I cannot consider it love. First love came and would set a pattern I would return to numerous times.
When we hung out it was almost exclusively alone,
often teetering on the precipice of more.
I was completely and utterly naive,
She was constantly searching for something,
often in the most self-destructive ways.
I could see nothing but her
And yet, I never even got to kiss her.
She painted, did a lot of drugs, and had many boyfriends.
She is now married and has a child. She will always occupy that most cherished place in the heart reserved for first love.
She is a novel, or several, in and of herself.