first words,
first steps,
the first kiss,
the first time
the last words,
the last glance,
the last goodbye,
the last time
everything is measured by firsts and lasts
no one cares about the second
or third
or sixteenth
or fifty-fourth
just the first and last
the dash that will be on our tombstones,
the dash that will represent our life,
is meaningless
because it's not a first
and it's not a last
but inside that dash
is hundreds of seconds
and thirds
and sixteenths
and fifty-fourths
and firsts and lasts
they ask "who was your first kiss?"
and you remember the boy who gripped your shoulders the wrong way
and the awkwardness of the clinking teeth
and the surprise of how nice it felt to have lips on your lips
no one asks about the second;
the second kiss is unimportant
as is the third
and sixteenth
and fifty-fourth
but it's still in your dash
one day,
there will be a small dash
etched in a gray stone
in between two much larger numbers:
the first and last year of your life
the dash will be tiny
minuscule
only as big as the tip of a fingernail
but it will include all your
firsts
lasts
seconds
thirds
sixteenths
fifty-fourths
and wherever we go after death
you'll remember all those not-firsts-and-lasts
and somehow
they'll be the most important
YOU ARE READING
Another Broken Eternity
Poetrythis is poetry in the sense that everything broken is poetic. a collection of poems about love, betrayal, hope, and broken dreams inspired by milk and honey by rupi kaur. #137 in poetry - 09/15/17 #229 in poetry - 12/25/17 #118 in poetry - 01/13/18...
