I was not your first
Apr 16, 2026 · 13 min read

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.
