I recently came across my old journals from when I was in love. There is one in particular that is filled, cover to cover, solely about him -- that one summer recorded in poetry. It’s a bit strange to look back on now, but each poem still hits as hard as it did when I wrote it. Revisiting this poetry is hard. I am worlds apart from this suffering girl, but as I read, I am suddenly transformed back to my seventeen year old self, crying to Elvis' "Can't Help Falling in Love" on repeat well past midnight, writing until my knuckles bled.
That’s the thing about poets. You never really lose the ones you love -- they’re just turned into poetry.
"If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die" -Mik Everett
I was seventeen. Love is never as insatiable as it is when you’re seventeen. Every feeling is so enormous. Sometimes too much to bare. You feel the weight of the world at seventeen. You’re so malleable, fragile -- you’d hope every word spoken to you is chosen with the same kind of delicacy.
So love, especially, is tremendous. Greater than anything you have ever felt before. And it truly was love. My first love.
I’ve always felt the world quite deeply but nothing compares to Summer ‘16, heartbroken over a best friend who did not love me back. At least, not enough.