We smoldered from the start, a slow, steady burn. The kind that makes it hard to breathe because of the smoke that lasts forever and keeps you warm all the time. No matter what, always there was that burn, that deep-rooted fire. But fires like that burn out and then you’re left with this new cold, this strange, disturbing emptiness. And you’re so confused, because that fire was yours and that smoke was forever. But you can breathe again and you’re so cold and you just don’t know what to do. You still saw hot coals and inhaled smoke, but that came from you, all you. All I had were dry ashes and that memory and confusion.
And he came. He came and he saw me lost, he saw me hopeless. He took me in and with whispers and melodies blew away the ashes. His words were promises made of air; air thick with hope and desire. He set me free from the weight of these ashes but he could not remove the memories of smoke and flame. The problem is that once you smolder, once you live breathlessly, once you live that warmth and that strength, nothing measures up. He is still air. Yes, I can breathe now, but I’m not sure I want to. He is the air, the cloud, the cyclone. He is the air I breathe, and he is room temperature. He is the cloud, too far above for me to feel and too mercurial to trust my soul with. He is the cyclone, too strong and too fast.
I do not want my first back; that was gone long ago, and even bellows would not reignite that fire. But this air I’m living in is so thin, so delicate. I’m no longer warm and breaths come too easily. I want that deep burn back. I want to feel it deep in my stomach. I had my first’s every feature memorized, and sometimes I see a flash of a beautiful brown eyes or a crooked nose and I lose myself again. I cannot memorize my now’s. He is air, and the wind is hard to recall. Maybe this is just the struggle after losing your first love. Maybe my now is just not enough. Or maybe, I will never smolder again.