In the Wake of a Morning Light

First Love

I cannot say his name, but I can sing only a song of wishes.
When I first met him, he was thirteen. He was still a midgety, awkward-y youth; but there was just something about him that I liked. He was pretty quiet while his friends guffawed inappropriately, and I paid careful attention to him as he sat at his desk a few places in front of me. He had this strong aura about him, and as cheesy as it sounds, I was drawn towards him.

I liked him when I first saw him. It was love at first sight. He was my first love, my first heartbreak, my first never-be, my first what-if.

And I know that love is just a meaningless cry in a vast space of nothingness, but could I, at least for once, get the pleasure of flushed cheeks, shy smiles and hasty eye contact?