I’ve never been so happy as when I was in love for the first time. First love was when I was desperate for that other soul, so much so that I had to literally run to his house in the middle of the night just because I couldn’t wait until morning to see his face and kiss his lips. First love was when the thought of breaking things off was absolutely inconceivable to me, ridiculous in its impossibility. First love was when the word just popped out of my mouth, with no thoughtful consideration on my part; it was uncontainable, a fierce desire that had me wanting to get close to him in every way possible and then stay there.
The world was no different, but I had on glasses that weren’t just rose-colored; they were sparkly rainbow things that made everything look stupidly, perfectly and unreasonably wonderful. A rainy day spent at a golf course slipping in the mud had me laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe properly; a sweaty school dance became the most romantic of occasions. The cliché became real, but I was far from scoffing at it.
Even after we broke up, any given love song was suddenly alive with meaning, even those sappy ones whose lyrics I had always thought more than a bit absurd, and I would have gladly (and probably embarrassingly ardently) sung them all to him just to be able to express the force of my passions in some communicable way.
Why did I love him? His goofy, full-faced smiles were somehow able to shoot a path to my heart, warming me there, and there was such peace and true contentment to be found with his arms around me. He had the words to comfort me, to calm me, to make me laugh and cry, to make me grow and think. After our first kiss, I said, “took you long enough.” I was already waiting and anxious for him before I was barely aware of his attraction.
The thing about love is that it really sticks in your heart, taking up space there for better or worse. Even if your loved one is no longer around, it’s near impossible to shake. This is especially true at the beginning of a breakup, yet to be quite honest; I’m still waiting for his mark on my heart to fully fade away. I have a sneaking suspicion that its shadowy form lingers, drawing a smile and a sigh when I picture his face or think of his name, because I was never so happy as I was with that blonde kid, who was not rich, nor particularly handsome, but to whom I gave at just seventeen more of myself than any other man before or since.