This is a poem
about the day we first met,
and how you'd always say you knew
before even talking to me
that we'd get along.

This is a poem
about the book I was reading on day two,
and how you made fun of me
because some of the pages
still had pictures.

This is a poem
about your nickname,
and how I always thought it suited you
since it reminded me
of coffee mugs.

This is a poem
about your eyes,
and how they'd crinkle at the corners
and sparkle a lot
whenever you laughed.

This is a poem
about your laugh,
and how even though it was way too loud
it always sounded
a lot like music to me.

This is a poem
about a leather chair,
and how we'd always argue
over who got to sit in it
but ended up sharing anyway.

This is a poem
about my first kiss,
and how it took you way too long
to pick up on subtleties
but you made up for it pretty well.

This is a poem
about your beat-up Camry,
and how whenever I'd ask you
where we were driving this time
you'd only ever say "forward" or "adventure."

This is a poem
about clichés,
and how whenever I'm describing you
they're the only thing that comes to mind
even though I know it's lame.

This is a poem
about the first time I fell in love,
and how through everything that happened
I couldn't have asked for
a better first than you.

This is a poem
about the church parking lot,
and how the way you said goodbye
made me feel literally sick
and I didn't think the hurt would go away.

This is a poem
about you,
and how I can't still imagine myself
with anyone more amazing
than everything you were.

This is a poem
about us,
and how the ending came too soon
but I still wouldn't dare go back
to ever change a single moment.

Sometimes I try
to write about you
and I want to add
a line, something like
"and this is the last poem
I'll ever write for you."

But I know I can't ever do that.
You and I both know
I'd never be able
to truthfully say that.
Because if I'm being honest,
I'll always be writing about you.
I'll always be writing to you.
Your first love is the poem
you never ever stop writing.
I'll always be revising that poem,
always adding verses;
and of course it can never be perfect,
but in a way that's why it's beautiful.

So that's what you are to me—
the poem I'll always be writing,
revising,
rearranging,
living.
It'll always start with and come down to you.
The poem I'll carry around with me
in the little notebook I call my heart,
with scribbles in the margins
and notes to myself between stanzas.
You're the poem I'm going to reference
in every single other thing I write.
You're the crumpled piece of paper
pulled out of the back pocket of my memories
whenever anyone asks about the first time.
You're the ink in my pen
as it hits the paper
and you're every word I write with that ink.

And as far as first drafts go…
I'm really happy with what you gave me to work with.

I gave you my heart
and you gave me your own
after school sometime in early spring.

I found my best paintbrush
and in a few careful strokes,
I put my name on your heart
in my best calligraphy.
You pulled out an object
I was all too familiar with
and placed the blade against my heart.
Then you pressed down,
and I don't think you realized
but when you wrote your name
it sunk in deeper than I think you meant to,
and you ended up carving your name
into my heart.

Then you handed it back to me,
and asked for your own,
so I had to return it,
paint strokes and all.
Soon enough you had managed
to wipe off all the calligraphy
and your heart was good as new.

I wish you had made it so easy for me.

I've given up by now
on trying to fill the space
where your name has been engraved.
I've accepted, I guess,
that you'll stay there forever.

But I have yet to
get used to the inscription,
and I want you to know
that next time,
you should really use a paintbrush.

Carving with a knife hurt a lot more.

It might be tough,
but I don't mind.

Cause I'm all yours
if you're all mine.

I've something to tell you,
but no idea how to say it.
Especially when I'm not even
completely sure what "it" is.
My first thought was a painting
(a picture's worth a thousand words, you know)
but I quickly learned that
not even a thousand was enough.
I wasn't quite able to convey
simply through brush strokes
the feeling in the pit of my stomach
(like a dropping rollercoaster,
but much more thrilling)
whenever you smile at me.
Just a few pencil marks
couldn't ever communicate
the fireworks that ignite
as soon as our fingers touch.
And I've heard other people
try to explain in only words
the way this feels
(the closest we've gotten are the letters l-o-v-e)
but I'm not sure if even
the world's greatest poets
would be able to accurately portray this—
let alone me, with my little notebook
and my twelve-cent ballpoint pen.
But I need you to know
that even if I can't describe it to you,
there's something about 'us'
that makes me happier than I've ever been.