A love is the first unto itself.
As the years have softened memories, where hurt plunged itself into my heart, I’m reminded of times when it did not. Of my immediate attraction to who you were and was. The lightning fire intellect and immediate urgency I felt to be around you.
I often wonder if my attraction was in fact “love at first site”, because that is how I remember feeling when I first glanced upon you. The way your body draped itself across the chair, limbs folded and hung in a sort of steadfast confidence.
The desire to see you, to hear origami words meticulously fall from your lips, became a compulsion that roomed itself within me, at no invitation having been offered.
I would attempt to distance myself from you, even within the same room so as to better grasp my senses while sparks and cracks became incessant in the attraction, no matter how inappropriate — I was already partnered after all.
Through our eventual and unavoidable union, I held the idea of us with an athletic endurance, I’m surprised you never saw it. I hope you do now. If not in the idea of my leftovers, but perhaps in her.
I would lie if I said that your memory does not still being me pain, but it is now just that, a memory. A thought, left floating idly by the bigger picture of a person I loved. Of all that person meant, and how they entangled and ensnared the parts of me that I wanted to love.
That love, instigated by childhood fabrications, fascinations and the family way does not diminish its value. It only further defines itself as distinct and singular with the scope of many loves one might have.
Yes — I loved you. I loved you immensely and with a ferocity only first time love can feel. A love of many is still a first unto itself.
So I think its time for me to let go, and find solace in the gratitude that it was mine, to have and to hold, until death do us part.