I want to fall back in love with my first love. I want to get back that indescribable feeling I would get whenever I think about my first love. I miss the faint goosebumps that arose on my skin, the erratic paces of my heart. The lack of moisture in my mouth kind of reaction. The dilation of my ever searching eyes kind of reaction. That ever current restless leg syndrome that always began with my right foot whenever I encountered my first love. Even to the point of just thinking of my first love, my right leg moved like clockwork: up, down, up, down. The light graze of an invisible hand as the pleasure fueled shivers raced down my spine and spread through my veins. The sadomasochistic smile that ever grazed my face as I bled myself dry for my first love. I bled for her and only her. Bleeding didn’t mean I was alive anymore, no. It meant I felt enough. Because the first cut is truly the deepest, burning me, pleasing me, caressing me, swallowing me whole into an abyss that only a few could understand. “you’re crazy. This isn’t healthy,” oh. Unhealthy ? Sure. Call me crazy? I don’t mind. The blood bond I share with my first love is only to be recognize by those who share the same passions as I. My first love gave me a soul, one to be recognized and heard. My first love is……
I want to fall in love with my first love again. I want to be dedicated to a love that is capable of being what I need. My first love? I’m starting to love you again.
Just give me some time.
I’m not much of a poet or a writer. I just have a lot of feelings.
Writing has become a little bit easier for me. There was a time period where I stopped writing and it physically hurt me. To have all of these words in my head and I couldn’t write it down, pained me. Ive been going through a period through my life where my actions gave away too much and my words weren’t enough. Now, things have changed. It’s different.
I just want to write. I want to write until my hands fall off and my words bleed my emotions. I want to write until I’m drowning in sentences and poem and stories. I just want to write.
But I don’t have the words at the moment.
I think what I really want to do right now is take a creative writing class. There’s nothing else I want to do except take this class. Sadly, my school doesn’t offer creative writing classes. Well, if they do, it’s probably only for English majors/minors and/or writing minors. Sigh. This lack of motivation is killing me slowly. I look at my red moleskin, empty because I have nothing to write about. This isn’t even writers block. At this point, I’m desperate for an idea just so I can have writers block. At least I’ll have an idea and I’ll start writing. But this ? This is far more worse than writers block. The itch, desire, craving to write fiction is getting at me. I feel as though I’m walking through life like a zombie. I’m zoning out frequently. I’m day dreaming constantly, trying to spark an idea from my imagination. I’m not even focusing on life right now. All I want to do is achieve an idea, lock myself away in a room and write. I want my words to reflect my thoughts and emotions. This pent up frustration is eating at me and I don’t know how long I can keep up this facade of “everything is fine. It’ll come to you soon.”
I never expected you to stay. So, why are you asking me for a reason to?
When you’re in college, you meet a plethora of people who come from all different kinds of backgrounds, who have different values, beliefs and cultures. In my first semester alone, I met many different people who constantly help me see the world in their eyes.
One time, a friend of mine came to my dorm room at almost five in the morning. She couldn’t sleep and she really wanted to talk to me about something. She pulled me out of bed and we walked to Founders Hall( which is where majority of my classes are). At Founders Hall, there is this great, rustic balcony overlooking the descending hill and the vast beauty of the Hudson River. We took a seat, she pulled out a cigarette and started to talk. It wasn’t any ordinary conversation. She shared a lot of personal information about herself with me that she has done with someone in a while. She talked and I just listened. As the smoke swirled in the brightening blue sky, we shared a lot about each other that we didn’t know about one another. Maybe it was the intimate setting we set ourselves up for, the sunrise or how personal it was, but, I got to know her outside of her pretty face.
There will always be a moment when you’re given the opportunity to get to know someone more than what you’re supposed to know. Giving up that chance might ruin your possibility for ever getting that chance again. It’s your life, take it by the horns.
My skin prickles as millions of goosebumps dance across my skin. The air conditioner’s cool winds and the dreary, wet, brisk air from outside blows throughout the small room, gliding against my bare legs and arms. What I had once, was now gone. Out of sight, out of mind. I shiver and I rethink the idea of wearing so little to bed. Everything is in a shade of grey. It’s grey in this room. It’s grey outside. Grey, grey, grey. Color doesn’t exist anymore. The only color I see…I crave, can only be found….two bodies in a bed shift positions as they try to find a comfortable spot. The linens shuffle and one of them lets out a small groan of protest. The shuffling stops. Everything stops. I turn my eyesight to the forest that is now my backyard. I purse my lips and suck my teeth. The only color that existed was grey, green and brown. What I wanted was lovely shades of pink, red, oranges; passion, love, lust, romance. The wind shuffles the trees and I’m broken out of my reverie. These things didn’t exist here, well, not for me, that is.
It was more along the terms of false hope and pipe dreams than concrete foundations. Free falling and elastic, there wasn’t a definite feeling and I loved it. The thrill of anonymity and curiosity kept me on my toes and it was exhilarating. This was how you lived your life and I adopted this way easily. As I started to learn more about the wonders of you, many cursed your body language. You weren’t going to have a permanent place in my life, one told me. At the time, I wondered what they meant by that statement. Was it just to scare me or truly warn me about the future? But, I just summed it up into paranoia and ignored everyone. I was right; naivety was best friend.
Until, kind words turned into harsh realities and sharp blades. Secret conversations became the world’s biggest newsflash. When your fleeting personality but loving nature became too much and you ran. Time is still moving and wounds still hurt. Every second, I hold another piece of things left behind and I lock it away into a place that no one can reach. Because, there are places that shouldn’t be revisited again and you accept it. A foundation is what holds everything in place. A strong foundation can keep anything from falling into pieces. Foundations are what keeps everything worthwhile.
He doesn’t know the word Impossible,
Doesn’t care where I’ve been and doesn’t care where we’re going.
He takes me as I am,
and that isn’t easy.
He’s beautiful, so beautiful.
Sometimes, I think he’s truly crazy,
and I love it.
His eyes, that’s where hope lies.
That’s where blue skies always meets the sunrise.
His eyes, that’s where I go,
When I go home.