Dear first love

I know what you will say.
Like all mature rational sensible adults, I should let go.
Cultivate space in my mind and let magic sweep away delusions.
It’s been so many years. Fuck the past.

But you appear in my dreams, consistently.

And this December, it’s been especially real.
Leonardo and Marion in a Nolan movie real.

There was one in which you are six and I am five and we spew Shakespearean monologues on what a waste of life marijuana is.

In another dream, you watch, somewhat amused, as I negotiate a ‘safe word’ with a boy in an East London flat.

Once, while I stand there gazing at my reflection in a mirror, I feel a peck on my neck while the curtains dance to Jimmy Page’s power riffing.

There was one in which we drove a chevy off the cliff.

These are visions I cannot tuck away because when I wake up in the morning, the flavour of the ashes in my mouth is real. The creases on the bed blow empty kisses. It impacts, in one way or another, my sepia-tone state of being.

Maybe we’ll meet somewhere, above and beyond the Void, where this dichotomy will disappear. You will be alive and I won’t be half-dead. Like magic.
Till then, the past walks hand in hand with the present.
You breathe in my consciousness.

Merry Christmas.

m3gha