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First

There’s a certain shade
of teenage love
unlike any other
that time has to offer.

A passing flush
parades across the chest;
a formidable force
under the breast.

Heaving; heavy with
the weight of the First,
a confident uncertainty
of its own making
Sinking or Floating or Breaking
it becomes made.

A breathless vision;
here, well-hidden
in a canvas marred with age –
where vibrancy inevitably
has dried up like old paint
and succumbed slowly, under
silent fade.

Picture the seasoned lover
until the Last,
now warms with a pallet
of a predictable ensemble;
where a once-familiar hue
emerges as new.

Ah, the First –
a memory described
head-first deep-dive
into complete saturation,
summoned only in the tense
where once conquered all makings
now, washed from existence.

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Girl

She nodded toward me
made a comment
not a lady, or a miss,
but a girl
she called me
and it struck me
with interest
so that the idea
like a ball
rebounded in my brain
again and again and again
until I settled, pleased,
that I should be seen-
not for my years
surmised by my age,
but for the smile offered
in its place.

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Muscle Memory

Lover
your whispered words
of a time before,
still carry
feather-light fingertips
across the skin
warm-spreading
and a tightening
breath, caught fast
in my chest –
I remember.

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