I think the person this probably applies to most is my First Love. It was almost storybook in its perfectness. I was 19, he was 17 (yes, yes, cradlesnatcher blah blah) and our first kiss, after much dancing about each other with knowing looks and stars falling from the sky in great meteoric showers, was on the beach on a moonlit night, waves crashing below as we wrapped ourselves in each other. See? I wasn't lying. I said it was storybook.
We remained wrapped in each other for almost two years, growing up together, he was the first person I slept with, it was gentle, beautiful, storybook (again.) I realise, now, after hearing other people's stories that I was incredibly lucky. We did everything together and were truly, youthfully, happy. He got me, I got him. Every bit of each other. As is the case of many relationships, the happiness got less and we eventually (after much angst, pain, and to-ing and fro-ing) called it a day. We were very good friends still, though.
Well, we still are, but the drift came in. We fell in love with other people, moved to different towns, life happened, he moved continents, we got older, exchanging sporadic e-mails that became more-and-more sporadic until they are, now, reduced to an occassional comment on Stalkbook. I never meant it to happen, but it did.
The good news, though, is that I am pretty sure (as sure as one can be of these things) that, when he returns to these shores, he'll still get me and I'll still get him, and that friendship will return.
World Penguin Day
1 day ago