It’s March and suddenly spring. Whatever be the tint of your glasses, there are flowers to be seen everywhere. Isn’t it ironic then, that he chose to send me a whole notebook’s worth of paper covered in poetry and what should fall off from between the leaves but dried pink bougainvillea.
‘How do I not love you!’ he says. No, I will not read these just yet. They’re my personal treasure. I’d much rather hug them and sleep in his old white shirt I sneaked away. It is about the most comforting place in the world, so close to slipping into his arms, into that first day of March, warmed by the ruthless sun.
Oh these pages smell so like his shirt, so like him. He knows how to fill my room, no, my senses, with his presence even when he’s a thousand miles away. It is hard to believe he is not here, standing next to me, as I write this, leaning his elbows onto my desk, looking at me, and smiling that smile of his that is sunshine itself! It is hard to believe that I can’t reach out a hand and touch his cheek and plant a kiss on the other. It’s hard to believe he won’t simultaneously smile and raise his eyebrows in surprise, and take me by surprise, in turn, with a kiss.
My first kiss.
And he decides to send it cascading in a shower of my favourite blossoms from between his poems.
Tonight, I sleep in the stolen warmth of a white shirt, surrounded by a hundred memories of my first kiss.