First Love

It's the despised demise of those two eyes.
It's the pain, the cries, the shrieks, and lies.
It's the short hello's to long goodbyes,
And all these signs that have chastised my life.

It's the lowest of lows to highest of highs,
And the median where I unwillingly reside.
It's the suffering and pride that I disguise,
Yet the chide inside that I can't hide.

It's the fact that she won't take me back.
It's the love and the luck that I apparently lack.
It's the reasons why that makes me mad,
And the reasons why not that makes me pack.

It's the seeing of her with him,
The disgust and hatred of that sinful grin.
It's her thick skin that won't let me in,
A labyrinth of love that makes me flinch.

It's the sight of those two I can't stand,
It's the connection we have which she disbands.
It's our future plans that she void stamps,
A certain brand allergic to these hands.

It's the scent of her perfume in the air,
The tears that it brings, that burns and stings,
That stains and leaks and continually streams down cheek to cheek.
How many times must I agree to return to the same disappointing thing.

The reoccurring dream of her in the front seat,
Holding my hand, tapping her feet to the beat of the song that we sing.
Repeating themes that gleams of steam,
That shines and screams the sexual notions that she breathes.
Soaked in my skin it creeps and creeps, week by week.
Then suddenly, it clings as a permanent ring to the finger right of my left pinky,
Forever, despite the old and wrinkly.
Shattered, I gather each piece to find three missing.
An unsolved puzzle of kind that force feeds my reminiscing.