Ghost Letters, p.1

Dear First Love,

I’ve realized that I’ve had trouble saying your name recently. Each time I do, I get the taste of blood in my mouth. I hope this doesn’t happen forever. I miss the taste of love on my tongue, speaking in tongues of praise. You, First Love, are the definition of a love not yet experienced. I wonder if you still think of me and the way you used to run your thumb across the palm of my hand while you held it, or the way you used to brush my hair with your fingers, cursing the day I cut it. You found comfort in calling me yours, in seeking a home within me; a safe-haven. Do you remember when you slept over for the last time? We watched a movie with the strangest plot. It was about man and a woman that find a brass teapot that gave money whenever they harmed themselves. We laid in my living room on the couch till late at night, quiet kisses in the dark. You fell to the ground on your knees and told me how much you loved me. You told me how amazing I am, how you couldn’t believe how lucky you were. You started crying. I didn’t know that this was you trying to say goodbye. It was different since then. The next month was when you ended things. I convinced you to stay with me. My friends held an intervention, saying that I was trying to hold on to something that wasn’t going anywhere. I should’ve believed them. So, you see, First Love, I can’t move on the way that you wish I had. I cannot forget everything that I had endured. I wish you had been more gentle with me. Maybe I wouldn’t still be here holding my heart in my pocket with everybody I meet. I wish you were still in my life. I just won’t admit that I miss you, or that I wished you miss me.


Your First Love