define love

is it smiles exchanged and crushes denied

on the playground beneath cloudless skies

running away to giggle and hide

is that love?

define love

is it being stuffed in a pleather seat

as the bus bumps down the street

his smile crooked as his teeth

jostled jumbled and almost free

is that love?

define love

is it the crunch of autumn leaves

crumbling beneath trudging feet

as your hands almost nearly meet

and his voice you can feel tingling

midnight whispered phone calls ringing

is that love?

define love

is it miles apart in the middle of the night

recounting memories

is it fight or flight

for a future somehow combined

is that love?

define love

is it three years of promises

naked bodies and common knowledge

everything that hurts forgotten

comfort when you're feeling rotten

is that love?

define love

is it the pen and ink

straining your every exhale

staining your entrails

seeping through pores like rainwater set to boil

is that love?

because if it's not I don't know what is

and if I'm lost then I don't know where I live

because this is home and your arms are bliss

show me truly what love is

Probably I should say that when I think of my first love I always think of writing or perhaps reading.

Yeah. That's not true.

My first love was Shaun Cassidy in the Hardy Boys television mystery show that ran in the late 70's.

No, really it was, from afar of course. I was far too young to date Shaun Cassidy. My parents would have been dead set against that.

Still, I hung the posters on my wall. I even had a groovy pair of bell bottom jeans with his face airbrushed on the leg. So cool.

I suffered through the first half of the Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew television show whenever they opted to show Nancy Drew first. Pffft. "Bring on the boys," I'd say. He'd enter the frame finally, his big toothy smile catching me by surprise each time. I'd feel that little gasp of excitement. "This is love," I'd think to myself in the quiet of the dark as I went to bed that night, "I might marry him."

If love was merely this I'd fall in love seven times a day. It's so pleasant, so calm, so controlled and lovely. The kisses are as soft as the back of my hand. The touch like the pillow on my face. The dreams come in the waking hours, tangible and untangled. If this was love we'd all be whole no matter how it ended. Instead, first love with real flesh humans can be bitter and cruel in the wake of the soft kiss and tender words. "You want heartbreak?" I say to my kids sometimes, "Date when you're young."

It sounds callous. It is callous. I'm sorry. I'll try again-

Find your first love when it presents itself to you. Breathe it in. Delight in it. Let it go when it's ready and don't let it tear you from yourself. Dwell in the realization that Love may be a mystery you cannot solve in one episode. Let that be okay.

vii.

"all i want is for you to be happy,"

you say

running your fingers through my hair

as my head rests

on your thighs

all i can do is smile

and know that i am luckier

than any rabbit's foot

we miss the sunset

but not the opportunity

to fall into each other's arms

while the gods aren't looking-

we collide and collapse

with our breathing

our movements are

violent

desperate

disjointed

yet perfectly in sync as our skins crash

and i hit your stomach

your chest

your neck

and your breast

fuck,

i am so in love

i.

sundays were always my suicide days

but i am in your arms

and content-

why die

when i am in heaven already?

you slide onto my waist

straddling warmth

passion

and my thighs

your lips graze my neck

butterfly wings beat across my collarbone-

i'm fucking flying-

gravity is just another entity we don't believe in

ii.

i come into your room

in the morning

and crawl into your arms

we move slowly

but we soon speed up as you carelessly climb on top of my chest and rest your head in the crook of my neck

keeping it warm with your

morning breath

there are so many things wrong with us,

the world,

and the weather

but everything feels so right

my god,

you look so beautiful

in the morning light

And though I don’t show it, I’m shit my pants terrified.

These are recycled words that I type, but there’s really no better way to sum it up.

But you know what? I’m tired of missing chances. I’m tired of fucking up.

I’m tired of a lot of things.

So fuck it, I’m all-in; whether or not the rest of the world is. If I get fucked, I’ll take it with a smile. If I get broken, I’ll pick up the pieces and start over.

Here’s my heart, and I’m hoping for the best really, but there is that chance. That you’re a liar. That none of this is real. That this is all for nothing.

If I go by what the past has taught me: I should be careful; I should be reserved. Fuck trust.

But you know what? There’s also a chance that it’s not bullshit. That this really is what I’ve been waiting for. That you’re the change I want to see in this world. That you are real.

So fuck the past, because that isn’t what you are. You are the here, and now.

And fuck if I’m gonna let that pass me by. I’ve been living halfheartedly for way too long, and I’m tired of being lonely.

I’m tired of being cynical. I’m tired of being jaded.

Most of all, I’m tired of this apathy.

An Eagle stayed his flight and entreated a Lion to make an alliance with him to their mutual advantage. The Lion replied,

“I have no objection, but you must excuse me for requiring you to find surety for your good faith, for how can I trust anyone as a friend who is able to fly away from his bargain whenever he pleases?“

So, I’m cutting off my wings as surety.

I'm all-in—

the rest is up to you.

I'm sorry these second-hand wings and second-rate words

are all this recycled heart has to offer.

The first time someone told me that they loved me

I went down a list of what I thought were my flaws...

"You love me even though______?"

"You love even if______?"

And he sat there

And he listened

And he said he still loved me

No matter what flaw I pointed out

But then he fell in love with another girl

Who was perfect where I was flawed

And that motherfucker ruined me

Because now I KNOW I am not good enough

And I know there is always going to be someone better.

I'm imperfect even in my perfection

And that is a damn shame,

Cause I might have been able to love you better and harder than anyone else

But because you chose sunshine over moonlight.

You chose to hold her perfectly manicured hands.

You chose to break my heart.

I don't know if you lied,

But you ruined love for me.

You were the first person I had ever loved, that I had ever felt safe enough with to show my heart.

Now I'm damaged

And i can't see where my heart ends

And the scar you left begins.

And I guess maybe that's why you aren't just my first love, but my only love.

-ashleyanne

My first love, taken from a life of snuffed experiences like many cigarettes : They could have burned on, but to benefit nothing or no one. The setting of time takes me back before I was even enrolled in my first school experience, before kindergarten as some dub it. Her name was Brittany, she had brown hair, and was what my timid, tiny, and uninformed mind believed was love. We were brought together by her mother's friendship to my father's sister, I had many birthdays she would visit and my parents knew I was smitten, I believe there are pictures of childish pop kisses buried with the vault of my youth's memories. She was from what I can recall, a simple and sweet girl that was willing to run wild with the imagination that I had, which truly began the spark to the idea that I could do anything, and it was cool. We saw each other as much as visitation allowed (my parents were going through separation and divorce) and my father and aunt had resided with each other at least for some time, making the visits a little bit simpler. They were simpler times and they were much appreciated even if I didn't admit it so in those days. She is now a mother and wife back in Tennessee. I hope things are going great for her and her family and that maybe one day I'll get back to that freedom with someone, returning to innocence instead of revisiting.

Nat King Cole's Unforgettable, put Quill in a good mood. Eyes closed, he was sitting on a playground bench, the ear buds providing a nice, insulted quiet. He began falling into the earth, traveling weightlessly towards the center. King's voice stripped him of everything in this world. All disappeared as he fell quietly into a comfortable, dark place.

This happened often with Quill. There are certain songs that give him the sensation that he is being dropped. It’s not the genre that matters, nor the singer. He can’t point out what these songs have in common.

His stomach twists, and butterflies attack. His breathing deepens as he becomes aware. The air is crisp, the sun is warm, and he smiles. But, it’s short lived as it turns into a frown. The air was suddenly heavy, and he gets the sensation that something nearby is burning. He’s still falling, but grey clouds were starting to envelope him. The clouds came in waves, getting stronger with each push. Quill coughs, struggling to maintain his freefall. He opened his eyes.

The girl was crouching, arm on her knee. Her face was leaning in towards Quill. She inched closer and pulled the cigarette away from her red lips. She exhaled and tears formed in his eyes.

“What are you listening to? You look so peaceful.” She said, almost in a whisper. The white fluff intensified and the wind carried more depth. Some of the parents were staring at them.

“Unforgettable, by Nat King Cole. You know it?” She ignored the question, sat next to him, took one of his headphones and closed her eyes, listening quietly. It took one glance for him to know she was beautiful. Short black hair and a clean classic look: qualities Quill appreciated. But her abstract clothing and aggressive demeanor threw him off.

The song came to an end. She wrote on a piece of paper, handed it to him, and left the playground.

I was six years old, almost seven, when I first met her. My father brought her home, barely two-weeks old and sick as could be, the cutest little kitten-- to me. She had the strangest coloring, mostly grey with bits of brown and highlights of white, namely around her eyes.

We, my siblings and I, weren't allowed to pet her, or be near her-- because she was sick. Our parents put her in their bathroom bathtub with a full setup of necessities and towels to keep her comfortable. I, of course, didn't listen. I may not remember much of my childhood, but I'll never forget that instant pull of unyielding compassion, even if I was too young then to understand what it was.

At the time, I couldn't stand the thought of her being alone, so tiny in that relatively big tub. I risked punishment and snuck in every chance I got, just to sit there with her, pet her over the edge of the tub, sometimes play with her when she was up for it. Unknowingly bonding her to me, and I to her.

My father intended her to be his cat, naming her Smokey-- I hated that name, though in time it didn't matter. As she got better and strong enough to walk around the house, my father knew whose cat she was. There was little mistaking the way she followed me, or came to sit in my lap to sleep while we watched a family movie.

What started as an act of compassion, turned into a lasting companionship. My first love. I called her Mokey, so everyone else did too. We laughed, explored and played together. I also cried into her fur and comforting pur more times than I can remember. She moved around the Florida coast with me through my teenage years, and slept on my shoulder as I hit my twenties and settled down a little more.

She was sixteen years old when she died. Even to this day, my companion for more than half my life. There was nothing I wouldn't do for her, no one I wouldn't chastise for even suggesting her strange coloring was ugly. She was my Mokey. My baby. My Chunky-Funky-Spunky-Monkey. "Little-alien-Monkey" which had to be said in a rapid tempo of loving humor.

Monkey. My Beloved. 1993-2009 ~ engraved upon the vile of her ashes I still wear around my neck, so I'll never forget the first one to teach me unconditional love. Oh the stories we shared.

|| another-proser ||

I'd always heard warnings about cold blue eyes and shiny green orbs. What no one ever told me, was the danger sweet brown eyes could bring. So, I'll be the first one to tell you about this drug. Brown eyes come with rosy lips. Be careful about those lips too. They push venom into your system and leave their breath pumping through your veins. They also come with warm hands. Hands that burn like fire and scorch words on your skin. All of that is topped off with the sweetest voice. If angels and demons sang a lullaby, that would be the sound of brown eyes' voice. And when those eyes join those lips in a smile, the whole world melts around you, like the sun is staring at you and whispering poems. You never forget about those lips, and how they also join those eyes to do something else: to speak in a soft voice such harsh words, and not blink. Not once. When they say goodbye, when they see your tears, the sun doesn't flicker. And then the brown eyed sun sets, leaving a bright red sky. And everyone knows what follows the sunset. Darkness and darkness, an infinite night. Even though now I lay insomniac through the late hours, I never forget those beautiful eyes warming me up.

He was someone else's and we were complete strangers.

But his eyes were so blue that I found myself staring, constantly staring and wondering what it would be like to be the reason for his smile.

It started out beautifully then curved into teenage angst; fighting and making up.

But I loved him.

I broke up with him once and he cried. It was then that I knew that he actually loved me, too.

But life got in the way and he went down a road I wouldn't dare follow. We remained friends and dated off and on, but mostly we were off. The switch was broken because, in one move, he broke my heart.

He asked me once, "what do you see in the future?"

And I replied, "you." It was simpler then. It was easy to see him and only him.

He said, "I see us married with kids and a golden retriever. You'd have your big yard and I'd have my muscle car."

It shocked me, at first, because he'd actually thought about these things in such detail. I had too, but I didn't want to admit it.

Three years passed and the switch remained broken. I saw him again, high and in the wind. We were with friends, but the moment we were alone he said, "Do you remember when we were fifteen and I asked you about our future?" I nodded because that's not something you just forget and he followed up with, "marry me?"

He cried. For hours, he cried and told me about his thoughts and fears. I listened, but not with the same heart. He asked again and I kindly declined. I wasn't taking him seriously. Instead, I said we should sleep and that night, I chose to sleep on the floor.

The next morning, we sat on the front porch and he asked me again. I said, "you were actually serious? I thought you were just saying that because you were intoxicated."

Apparently, I was wrong because ten years passed and I happened to see him again. And he reminded me of the conversation. I just laughed and told him that I didn't think we were meant to be anymore. Life has changed both of us.

To this day, he still asks. And I always decline.