To Be Told at Garish Sunset, Unapologetically
You are permitted,
and sometimes required, to mythologize your first love to create labyrinths of fingerprints
(whether your body was touched or not) and populate hearts with monsters to devour
the meaning of memory.
To understand this tale, you must hear mythic names—
innumerable, unpronounceable, interwoven— footnote figures in half-faded ink who create the universe before love snaps taut to sail your epic, hints of histories and prophecies promised for another night with a brighter fire or the right arrangement of stars or more rain.
You may keep singing first love’s saga as if you were Ancient Greek/Norse/Egyptian/Celtic, reborn and sifting vestigial fragments from appropriated myths, as if you carried no cultural disconnect
to colour interpretation.
You may meet yourself amid decomposition, unearth an unnamed deity who defies worship but persists in metaphysics and narrative arcs as stubbornly non-linear
as every love that came after.