The Truth About Letting Go Of Your First Love

Summer of 2011, 2012, and 2013. Our months of drawn out kisses and sweaty hands clasped together. Our hot three hour long bus rides to New York and another one to Philly. Our Julys in the rain. Our Augusts of heartbreak and tears that grew seeds into our hearts. Our eager hellos and that gutting final goodbye. The summer months were always ours, even when we ended.

I always brought a piece of you with me wherever I went. Like when I spent a summer working retail in 2015, on the same street where I brought you chocolate croissants for lunch. We always had a way of working everything out.

You always had a way of clinging onto me, my saran wrap that I never wanted to let go of.

And then there was the summer of 2016. Last year. I remember working until I dropped. I remember wanting you to take my pain away. Wanting you to rinse my anxiety down the drain. And I remember thinking that you would be disappointed in me. For not following my dreams. For not singing at more open mic nights. For working at a shitty office job.

But then I did follow my dreams and I remember wanting you to know. I remember wanting to still be important to you , and I remember wanting to let you know that you were still center stage in my mind. I remember being proud of you. Proud of us. From once being these love struck kids, to now blooming into our own selves. By ourselves. Even if it stung like hell.

And that’s when I decided to make myself proud instead. And I decided to start doing things for me. Not for you.

I quit my job and followed this dream that I never thought was possible for me. I wrote a book. I wrote poems until my heart bled. My fingers were so free when they were flying. When I was writing about you.

And I remember you telling me you bought the book. The book of us. I remember being scared you were going to think it was too much. That I was too much. I remember thinking that I still fucking loved you.

And a part of me always will. That will never ever change.

But you aren’t my saran wrap anymore. You don’t cling to the ugly parts of me and kiss the dark thoughts away. You aren’t mine and I can’t call you at midnight anymore. I don’t know who you are now.

I used to think that I would miss you every summer. That whenever the sky turned blue and the sun shone until 8pm, that I would go back to wanting your heart and hand to hold me through the drought. I used to think that the summertime was when my heart would fall apart.

But today, tonight, on the first day of summer 2017, I don’t miss you. And maybe, just maybe, this feeling will last. And maybe, just maybe, missing you will be a thing of the past. And I’ll write about something else. About someone else, one day. And maybe this person, whoever they are, won’t leave me like you.