The bookworm comes home.

I forgot my first love.

The words falling from my mind.
The pictures disintegrating.

The monsters and heros picked up and dropped off the cliffside of my bookshelf.

 

 

The sweet caress of whispers and shouts of make-believe loves.

The laughter, joyous and bright. The shoulders strong and stable. Tensions between harmony and illusion were my syndicated friends.

My family stood immobile on a page only moving forward to beget my own soul’s desires.

 

I left them behind because the stories became too much to bear alongside my own.

They say ‘work on you’ ,and... I guess, they say ‘if you love something set it free.’

I do not know if my first love ever loved me.

 

I found my first love again.

It took time.

There was a good amount of effort. Maybe some cheeky defensiveness when questioned by my dusty imagination.

 

Those lost arms clasp around me and I feel at home.