Believe

My first kiss was at age 17. A surprise, stolen kiss. A kiss that was never just a kiss. It had a lot behind it – my broken heart and shattered dreams, for once. All my first kiss fantasies were destroyed by that sincere and unreasonable act of that boy by my side. That kiss meant a serious relationship, with a boy I learned to love – because no, I didn’t love him from the beginning. It is hard to say this now, and I hope he understands, because I did love him a lot. And if he loved me from the beginning, I think he also understood: what we had was never love. It was real, very real. But it was more of a deep affection than love. I’ll be sincere: I’d take it back, if I could.

I was always trapped in platonic romances. By far, boys are much better when you can just picture them in your head. Reality is cruel, and in the bottom of their hearts and minds, everybody is a big mess. Every time I get to know people better, I dislike them in a romantic way, and like them even more in a friendly way. Because I search for perfection – prolly hoping I never find it.

For a few years of my life, I thought my love had died. Now I see I just wished it did, so I wouldn’t have to search for it. I’d always know where it had been buried, and I would be able to visit whenever I wanted to. A sad wish it seems, but it made me happy and kept me satisfied. A satisfaction I never again had, ever since I realized there’s no such things as dead loves. But it also got me wondering about living loves as well.