I was not your first

I’ve never written directly to you, 

as wild as that sounds. 

I’ve never told you 

what goes on amongst the worms

and grey wrinkles 

that adore you the most. 

Perhaps it’s fear 

you won’t understand, 

though I know

this to be 

the anxiety of a fool. 

Maybe it’s because 

I tell you my thoughts freely,

 as is so easy to do 

with your best friend. 

What would I say? 

That you complete me? 

The dirty thoughts that pollute me

and refuse to be swept under the rug,

no matter my pleas. 

This gnawing understanding 

that there will be a time 

when the earth knows not 

your form any longer. 

And dirtier still, 

I would rather it forget me 

too 

at that moment. 

If I told you these things, 

these daily interruptions…

would they hurt you too? 

I refuse 

to state them plainly

just the same; 

if only to avoid 

some kind of magic incantation 

that makes a nightmare 

reality. 

No, today is the opposite of that.

It is the day, 

a little while ago, 

that the world was blessed by you, 

the same day my life changed. 

I missed two dozen April 14’s,

before I met you. 

Your first beer.

Your quince, too.

I was not your first love. 

I’m glad. 

Because I could have missed a lifetime.