first love jitters
it's night. the stars are out and the moon is surrounded by a simple halo.
i am beside you, your voice echoes in the silence like the lullaby my mother sang to me when i was four. my breathing slows yet my heartbeat quickens. my palms hold oceans in their creases and my chest now rivals a thunderstorm in its clapping.
you ask me what i fear most in the world; i hesitate to answer. you take the quiet as a cue and spin me a tale of a little boy dressed in your clothes, shaking as you take your first step into a plane.
"i fear flying," you whisper. your words are lost in the humming of the wind, pulling me closer so i could catch them. in the distance, someone plays a piano. "man wasn't made to fly-- our bodies are too frail to fall great distances." i remain the lover of quietude. the piano player reaches his crescendo. you turn to me, your eyes open, welcoming, warm. i shiver despite of it.
you drape your coat over my shoulders, your smell cocoons around me and i force a smile to my lips. i am happy. but my happiness doesn't dwell on the curves of my lips or the arch of my throat when i laugh. it sits on the spaces between my ribs and fills my body with a lightness i could only compare with contentment.
"i fear losing you," i say, voice as hesitant as a first date kiss. "i fear going back to what we were-- before i met you and you met me, before you and i became a we."
your fingers touch mine, as soft as a butterfly's kiss.
in the distance, the pianist concludes his solo.












