Not the First. (Free Write)

Cross-posted from my Tumblr; this is just a little free-writing while waiting for the office clock to strike 5:30.


You are not my first love—he was a wreckless boy who put on too much perfume and listened to too much Nirvana. The love marks he left on body he didn’t leave with his mouth but with a burning cigarette butt.

I am not your first love—you told me she was a woman with full breasts and a voice like slumber that overcomes you on a swaying bus.

When we held each others’ hands for the first time, it was not the first time for either of us to hold a lover’s hand. When we first kissed, when we first touched, when we first fucked and first fell in love, neither of those things were firsts for us.

“I’ve never felt this way before” you said, and as much as I knew it to be true I also knew that it was not the first time you said that to a girl sitting on the edge of a bed half-naked and smoking a cigarette.

I do not want to be obsessed with firsts but I am: the first breath, the first step, the first word, the first hurt, the first wound, the first lost tooth—the initiation only means so much, but that is what we remember.

I am afraid on your deathbed you will close your eyes and as life is about to leave you, think of her—the first woman with the breasts like melons and forget me, not the first to quench the thirst you felt for love.

FUCK. Can’t think at the moment. But for future reference:

recency effect, remember that time when Tito Ben had a stroke and he remembered everyone’s name except yours because you’re the youngest and not the first, in fact the farthest from the first, remember remember remember those things. For future reference.

Back to work.