Looking at Photos of the Guy I was First in Love With

Looking at photos of the guy I was first in love with,

it feels like getting something stuck in your throat.

Like hitting a bar or a branch while walking.

Like getting suddenly hit unexpectedly, slapped by someone you cared about.

Looking back at photos to find photos of me, and getting hit in the gut with memories, with my breath caught in my throat looking at him. Torture, really.

It makes me remember

remember him

remember laughter

remember someone offering to pray for me

and remembering being two parts of a whole, at last.

It was a pinnacle before the fall. Adoration before destruction.

It does not compare to the turbulence inside me now

the whirlwind of medical issues

and anger

and desperation, wanting

needing

begging

to be the best.

(to be his.)

That is all gone now.

I can remember hugging him tightly, wanting to kill someone for him, adoring that man.

I can remember the pain we caused each other

and I have learnt from it.

I am reborn.

Looking at photos of the man I am in love with makes me wonder how I ever fell for the first one.

Who would ever choose uncertainty over warmth?

I remember, but I move on.