the first time you hear. the first time you say. the first time you're quiet. the first time you call. the first time you tell. the first urgent message. the first time you talk. the first time you let her see you break down. the first time you write it. the first time you read it. the first time you tell someone who didn't know her. the first time they say they're so sorry. the first time the room is too loud and too quiet. the first time you have to go to sleep with it, to wake up in the morning like you've agreed to go on, to let it be. the first time you realize it doesn't matter if you're willing to let it be or not. the first time the truth has edges and a smile with too many teeth, the first time it looks down at you from so. much. higher and you know it wins. first, when you feel alone with it, every second you're not with someone, and sometimes when you are. when even your love looks shady, like maybe it's an enemy, too.
that first time. and every time after. you know it's just as hard to accept sleep the second night, no matter how tired you are. it's just as hard to make the second call, the third, the fourth, the fifth. it's just as hard to hear someone say they can't believe it, as if they should believe it, as if they must because it's true. truth and I don't make good enemies; we used to be so close.
the time spent in shock and the time when you aren't at all surprised. I can't believe she's gone; of course, it's killed again. the first time you realize your world knows this (too well), accomodates. the first time you realize you've come as close as you can to (ever) understanding, and you've built a home there. because whether truth is sixty times your size or an infant in your arm, regardless of the teeth in or not in her mouth, she follows you. and you end up tilling earth, planting gardens, building rooms.
the first time you remember this is your life, no movie, no book, no dream. the first time, and the second time, and so on, on, on, so long as you can take it and then some.
~me