A time from before I was ever in love ...

While I was rummaging through my old drawers at my parents' house, looking for text pages that would look like a serious speech, I found some old photos, (rare), one of which might, probably is, should be a photo of my ex husband... He may be a kid or something - (or is it a young girl? Or dD? It's too dark to see the colour of the curls) I can't even be sure it is him, because in The Brain his features are different, while The Heart remembered him exactly: who else could it be in a shy pose like that, without clothes like that? 

Brain has mixed things up together and people have turned to stories and stories have turned to reflexive remembrance on a membrane level. I was such a sucker at the time, I'd have believed The Heart anything.

The photo is bad and it's faded, but it's from a time exactly before the first time I was ever in love. Oh, there's been plenty of crushes on fictional characters (*hkhm*Jareth*hkhm*), couple of hot celebrities, even deep and curious attractions to certain people who were more like siblings ... After that moment come long, incredible, incredibly wasted, years of being fully submerged, not even a heel left out. I  found a potent verse from an old song from the period, that I haven't thought of in the past twenty years:

I can't believe the keys, the doors, 

the clouds that block the sun

Were all on my mind

Now I'm one with fools of love ...

I've felt a tremendous amount of feelings for a great many individuals, actual or benign, in these past three decades, of my mostly beating cardiovascular engine, but the one to own me in absolutes was this fictional wonder in the picture. I can really clearly remember what it was like before I fell, one could describe it as a vast, clean, heavy white silence. I know I would die or come next to death if I ever stopped being in love, it's just how I am built - a lighthouse or a library, I have but one honest purpose - to be a poet. There was always only ever going to be one charge per a lifetime for me for this cannon, had the straw Adonis not turned out to be unable to reciprocate awe, himself designed devoid of  tender follies. It's a fucking miracle - or a tremendous amount of intelligent providence - that the man who has my heart safely now, today, the rebound guy who turned out to be the missing cogwheel, keeping it safe from me at times, even, has not a sinkole chest. Where the fuck was he when this picture was being taken? He saw me, he knew me, but left me standing out in the rain! I wake up in the morning and stare in first light at his beautiful body, the warmest, softest skin in the world, the heaviest legs, the largest hands, the plough, the plight pill, the least forgiving lips, thinking: I know. I know. You wouldn't have liked me if you met me at seventeen: I fancied sprites.