Warm.
Like training wheels, first love is outgrown.
Coddled, unharmed, in charge.
Tears are shed for the loss of companionship,
not of the companion.
Warm.
Rejection served alone is, while bitter, palatable.
Add a side of betrayal,
and wash it down with affable manipulation.
That is when the bile starts to rise.
Tepid.
Menial wounds of naivete mend
as experience requires more space inside.
The heart is given a backseat;
it is time to let survival drive.
Warm.
No worse sensation exists than doing a trust fall
and crashing to the floor.
Than being told words,
but never given actions.
Emotional rock bottom was unplugging our string lights.
That's what I told myself,
until you died.
Cool.
You deserve a small section.
Your confusion entertained my trauma brain
long enough for it to heal itself.
Thank you for not crossing a line.
Cool.
Rushing, learning, holding, buzzing.
Settling into comfort and car seats.
"Have I told you today you're beautiful?"
Yes.
Yes.
No.
Hello? Where are you?
"Sorry we have to do this on the phone."
It's my fault, I should know not to trust.
Cold.