Not Quite The First

When I first saw you,

You were little more to me,

Than a boy in short pants,

With skinny, hairy legs;

You had eyes that told too much,

And you were just another “project” of sorts,

My best-friend aimed to save.

We were young, and brazen, she and I,

And thought all the broken were ours to fix.

Young, and brazen.

 

When I first looked at you,

It was the summer of ’69.

No, I jest—you know my humour too well,

Us both ’94 babies who aimed things at twenty-one;

We were walking the cemented pillars

In our colonial best, my best-friend and I,

And you’d just graduated from a project to be salvaged,

To a boy with beautiful eyes.

I laughed in perfect humour

(So I wouldn’t have to roll my eyes),

But you walked by—

With the ghost of your name still on our lips.

That day, I found out, she was right.

You did have beautiful eyes;

Butterscotch, and amber,

(And that famous whiskey-brown the romance novels talk of,

When the sun caught your eyes).

I turned away, and poured that whiskey down the drain,

But the aftertaste of butterscotch,

Still burned my tongue.

 

When I first noticed you,

It was the year of ’09;

Standing on rough stairs

In pants that hid your knees,

With your back to the door, and the folds of long pants,

Sat neatly round your ankles.

You weren’t quite her project anymore,

So I smiled a rare smile,

Acknowledged your fine eyes,

And tasted whiskey doused in butterscotch.

 

When I first loved you,

It must still have been the year of ’09—

With that door against your back,

And fine eyes that asked too much.

I’d sipped too much whiskey,

Off a glass pane I couldn’t even touch;

But I did know right then,

Before I relearned sober,

That for anything you couldn’t ask me,

And all the things you wouldn’t ask for

Because you’d learned that wanting was too much,

I’d pour myself another whiskey,

And lace it with butterscotch

(The one flavour I learned to savour)

Because I liked the sunshine in your eyes,

And I’d be damned if I let you think

The only thing you would ever get if you asked for it,

Were rain clouds when it flooded.

 

When I first fractured,

I’d barely turned nineteen,

But I knew then, what I know now,

That I’d fix me just right,

So what we’d be all right,

Because ‘though you weren’t quite the first,

And neither was I,

You were still the only first,

Whose eyes did all the right asking,

And I’d be damned if I didn’t stay,

And say all that mine had promised.

 

K.N.O.W. Friday (morning), November 6, 2015. 03:15 hrs to 04:26 hrs.

 

 

 

7 thoughts on “Not Quite The First

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