Tell me about the first person you loved. Tell me about how they loved you and you loved them. How you stopped and why. Or if that concept cannot yet be understood. Give me the number of lessons you learned and if you’re still counting. Show me this list of each rich and poor moment. Is it written in cursive? Are there pictures in the margins?
Tell me how you sat, day in and day out, cradling the heaviness that was knowing everyday would carry their name somehow. How the silver screen in your head exhausted the replays of instances and the memory table of your heart turned scraps into feasts. How did it taste?
Now, tell me of the day it all felt different. The day you couldn’t even write about that person if you tried. Or the, now foreign, name that used to lay on your tongue like a trigger is no longer waiting to be pulled. Tell me about the lightness that your new heart carries. How breathing, in, out, in, out, has become the easiest blessing to be thankful for. What flowers would you buy yourself?
Tell me how you thought you wouldn’t get here. Explain to me how loving once more feels. Tell me how you read adoration in their eyes. Paint out how it doesn’t scare you one bit. Lay out the trek of how you loved yourself first and your God before that. How that made all the difference this time around. In the dark and in the light. Where you begin and they end and if there’s a difference between the two, at all.