And nothing will compare to that first love
unrequited, the way your heart aches
To reach out and touch her hair.
It falls like molten gold in the light
of a summer’s day in the Shakespeare
garden, you’re shaking with anticipation.
Laying in the grass, she leans over and
applies your lipstick with her finger.
Teenage adoration hangs in that lazy
afternoon, the cusp of fall, the first of
a thousand deaths.