You were my first love.
Before you, all I had were
little closed flowers--
they never bloomed
Before you I felt, yes.
But I never screamed
I never yelled it out to the world
That I liked a boy
And even with you
I do not but
my actions say it all
I smile for you
Grip your left index finger
That's the way you gripped me
My finger it pointed directly
at you
I want to dip a brush in my bloodstream
And paint pictures of all the earthquakes
you invoked in me
without
even
knowing
Breath is my favorite word these days
Breath was never clear between you and me;
always murky
We weren't right
Not in that way
But the smog-filled breath
that we shared
was the first taste of real air
I ever got;
before you
I was a foetus
dependent on the
amniotic fluid that was
"reality"
Before you.
Honestly, I don't remember.
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