A face never forgotten,
good times almost cliché,
but it's twist as clever as always:
The hero actually being the villain.
Ah, first love,
I uttered I love you,
and you so hesitantly said it back,
a frown over your face,
yet kindness on your tone.
You listened to my everything,
over and over,
for it meant you'd never had to open up yourself,
and a simple wack over my head would stop my questioning.
Dear First Love,
did you think I'd stay after four times of the same thing?
I thought I would have,
yet the acidity of your presence let my eyes pry open and see the reality of this pain.
First Love,
I can't call you that no more,
for I was never truly in love with you,
and was only infatuated by the image of you in my head.
I never got to know you,
as you learned every detail of me,
how could I fall in love with a person,
I didn't even know?
Even in intimacy,
I still felt like I was with someone I didn't know,
a stranger to my emotions,
yet a friend to my desires.
Dear First Love,
apologies in advance,
for it seems I never loved you,
see, I've forgotten your name,
and your voice doesn't taunt my nightmares anymore.
YOU ARE READING
𝗣𝗼𝗲𝘁 𝗠𝗲 𝗔 𝗣𝗼𝗲𝗺
Poesíaa collection of letters, poems, and short stories from deep within, a little addiction with it too; welcome to the emotions of the awkward teenage time we all once had.