Dear boy, real or imagined, I have yet to find out...
Seven o'two Wednesday evening, the last day of a very cold February. My eyes are closed. My head is still. My heart is slow. an old song plays and endless memories pulse in my brain. All happy.
Falling asleep in the car ride home from seeing the Juliana Theory, my first real concert. My foot balancing on the edge of a root breaking out of the concrete behind Salinas High as I reach up for my first real kiss. Walking on the vibrant red needles and the vivid green moss in yosemite with my first real valentine. My head on the shoulder of my first prom date. The song goes on and the firsts flood in faster. Every first "I love you." The school parking lot. In an old victorian. On that secret beach. The first time a boy ran his fingers through my hair and the chills they brought. The first time I wanted more.
And that's the shift. That's when I remember how few firsts I have left, and how many seconds and thirds you have to choose from. This is when I wish there was a new dialect of the heart in which I can communicate my love. When I wish my skin was new and untouched. When I wish I could bleed out every last drop of this old, heartbroken blood to be refilled with a purer flow. I want each of these to be.
But this is all only because for a moment the music makes me forget that the night comes and the tide rushes in, and in the morning, all of these will be, and someday someone will appreciate it.