My first love called to me last night,
her words perfect and seductive
as she invited me inside her covers.
I traced her spine with my fingertip
and inhaled her scent, reminiscent
of a forgotten woodland and mystery.
I removed her jacket and held her
stroking her naked skin, paper thin
and shivering in the evening wind.
I drank her in with my eyes,
consuming her with a fiery passion,
as if to make up for the time lost
since the summers spent running
from hiding place to hiding place
as we explored the world together,
alone in each others company but content.
My first love has been my constant,
playing with me and growing with me.
Fighting my battles by my side
and weathering the storms silently.
I drink her in greedily,
like a starving man seeing food,
or a blind man seeing with his fingers.
My eyes strain to contain her
as the light in the rooms fades
and sleep summons me mercilessly.
Finally, I slumber, snoring lightly
at ease knowing my love is by my side.
My first love, my best friend, my teacher
Though her face may change daily
and her body thicken or thin
and the black scars upon her white face
tell a different story each time we meet,
I will always love her.