For my first love loss.
I found myself dreaming of your death.
Never intentionally of course, always passively. And never, of course, because I wanted to kill you. That wasn’t it.
It came in the lapses in time when there wasn’t one thing in particular that I needed to turn my attention on; the imaginary funerals I held for him inside my head provided a delicate source of unconventional comfort for my unoccupied mind.
It had been two years since you and I fell apart. You’d remember what happened between us, at least I hoped you would. I know I did.
Maybe that’s why I wanted you to be dead so bad, so I wouldn’t have to wonder whether or not you remembered the little things that I did.
The way your hand fit mine. The creases that came up around the edge of your temples when you smiled for longer than most did, which was more often than not. The smell of the back seat of your car in the middle of the winter, your cologne stinging my skin and branding it with you.
All of these things were chard in the scars of your marks on my body and my mind, like stitches I couldn’t remove or sketches made in permanent ink.
I always found it funny how these things went, loving someone. Not in the cliche way that most people saw it, but more so all the things that come with the aftermath of it all. I’ve always firmly believed that you are not just destined to fall in love with one person. Throughout the journey of life, we are slated to fall in love with a multitude of individuals over and over again, repeating this cycle of loving and losing many times before we settle into a puzzle that fits. Your hand in someone else’s that doesn’t slip away; a lover’s brand that you’re okay with bearing on your skin.
Your first love will not always be your last love.
Or your truest love.
Sometimes it is just another love.
Powerful, but not potent.
True, but not forever.
What’s more curious to me still in this aftermath is the memories that we keep. The pieces that we decide our valuable enough to hold on to after the relationship has expired and you fall out of love with someone who has already left their mark upon your body. Nobody wants to hold on to what’s bad, what went wrong. We will not purposefully hold on to the moments of abuse. To the moments of confrontation or arguing.
Though these aspects were painful in the moment that they occurred, nothing is more painful than the realization that all those moments of light the two of you found in a dark world are no whispers of what they were; ghosts and tricks of the light.
The past has a funny way of glorifying itselPpf.
I think I found myself dreaming you were dead not because I wanted you to be, but because that’s what you were. My past. The person and version of you that I had fallen for on those autumn and winter nights was now deceased. When I drive past your house, I no longer image a living you seated inside at your kitchen table, active in the present moment and wondering why I’m not there beside you.
I only see what came before, the parts of you that I remember; the legacy that you left with me, the lover that branded my skin, but who’s marks I did not dare to keep.
You are my past, but I will not let you stain my future.
Rest in peace.
Poulson is an editor for The Millennial Times.