The first time I lied to my parents
was the day I found myself at your doorstep.

The surroundings were, to myself, foreign,
just as you were to me; unfamiliar, but welcoming.
I found myself shifting my fear through my feet,
hoping you wouldn't notice how nervous I was.

I've always abided to rules and structure,
but my construction collapsed when you held me for the first time,
and I ripped up the sequenced map I created in my mind;
it was the first time I found comfort in uncharted territory,
I was ready to get lost.

You take my hand and lead me through paths,
your eyes, yet another place unknown, like a forest;
and I couldn't keep my legs from sprinting.
Your hair, sandy waves, I couldn't wait to run my fingers through;
your arms, a safe-haven, a boat, I didn't mind getting carried away in.

That day I walked through the door,
I never thought I would get lost at sea,
and have trouble finding my way back out.

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