The day that I met you, I was only sixteen years old. Full of nerves and wonder, of coffee and uncertainty. You were also only sixteen years old. Full of excitement and knowing. A beautiful new thing.
I met you only two days after writing my first poem. I did not know then that you would inspire so many more. When you shook my hand, you did not know then that the same hand would hold mine less than two months later.
The day I met you, I was only sixteen years old. And what is a sixteen year old girl if not an anxious thing ready to hear what the world has to say?
The day we ended, I was only seventeen years old. My voice shaking as my lips form the shape of a lie. Your face calm and stable. Your eyes green and shallow.
That morning, I caught you looking at me in the amusement park. I did not know then that the upcoming hours would inspire many more poems. I try as hard as I can to not construct you into a metaphor. To leave as you are. Raw and open, not structured into what I think you could be.
The day we ended, I was only seventeen years old. And what is a seventeen year old girl if not an exploding thing ready to burst into the sky? Or to crumble under the weight of the world?
The day we changed, I was only eighteen years old. You were sitting in my grandmother’s kitchen. I had prayed for a sign. Something to show me that my inability to get you out of my head was not for nothing. And there you were, again a beautiful new thing.
The day we changed, I was only eighteen years old. And what is an eighteen year old girl if not a doubtful thing, unsure of what will happen next?