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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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