June,
Somebody once said that you, over the span of your life, only fall in love twice. The first time will happen after you reach a certain age, sitting among withered roses, thorns under the palms of your hands. All will be new, nothing will be lost. The second time once you grow up, wounds barely healed, diving naked in a wild forest lake. Both times will eventually haunt you like bad memories and hit you whenever you sleep alone in unmade bedsheets, or smoke two cheap cigarettes near your front door. What a stupid thing to say, I think, haven’t I fallen in love much more than that? What about the strangers I’ve spent my nights with? Did I not love them, too? But even then, you were my first. I must confess, I have fallen in love with so many parts of you, all separate and independent of each other. I am in love with your eyes, rain pouring down a river’s shore, I am in love with the way your pupils move, the feeling of your back’s skin, I adore the sound of your voice, I worship your entire body like some mad priest. Can it be so wrong to assume you as a divine being? After all, you’re the closest allegory to God I know. The big bang that created universes and the nuclear spark that burned it all down.
Kenny