Love first visited me when I was fifteen.
Love was best friend;
love was not meant to be.
He loved me,
and I thought I loved him too
for a while.
I destroyed him over two years
with my selfishness -
I was only fifteen.
I left carrying a broken heart in my hands,
and lost a best friend.
First love came when I was sixteen.
This time, it had warm brown eyes, soft hands and softer smiles.
It whispered shy confessions into my ear, and they sounded so genuine I made the mistake of believing them.
Love told me that I was the most beautiful thing that happened in his life, and it held me on nights I couldn’t sleep.
First love continued for about two years, during which I experienced the painful reality of giving your all to someone.
It taught me passion, pain, sadness, anger, betrayal.
First love was as blissful as it was torturous.
It left with me shivering on the cold bathroom floor, with months of sadness to follow.
It caresses me with tenderness I have not experienced before;
it shares my joy and my sadness as if they were its own.
Should this love not work out, I’ll be broken again;
but I will go on living because one day I know it will visit me again.
Now I am nineteen, and love has decided to fleetingly appear out of nowhere.
Love now has a childish face but sturdy hands and broad shoulders.