First Love

First love feels like

everything

in your first-year dorm room

is floating.

 

The little Buddha statue you brought

from your parents’ house

levitating on the desk.

The same kind of desk

everyone on this floor has,

but this one is yours.

 

Everything’s gold and

shimmering

in the light

coming down

from above

your desk.

 

Later,

as you stand next to the person

in the rain outside,

the breeze can

and does

blow you

into

their arms.

jwcharter

is the academic, Jack studies his Creative Writing MA in Kent, England. A previous fiction editor for The Menteur.

Contact him at jackcharter @ gmail . com (with no spaces)

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