January 24

One day, years from now, when my daughter is old enough to have survived her first terrible encounter with Love, I’ll tell her a story. I’ll walk into her room, to a floor scattered with clothes and pearls and heartbreak. I’ll gently stroke her head, and push away the strands stuck to her salty cheeks, and look into the numbness swimming in her eyes. I’ll tell her about you. I’ll tell her that you weren’t just the guy who scored the highest grades or got selected in every team; you weren’t just the most popular or admired one. You were also polite, and kind, and empathetic. You held the door open for me; you walked slightly ahead so that the crowd wouldn’t come in my way; you took my trembling hand in yours while crossing the road. I’ll tell her that my first time wasn’t scary and rushed, and that you made sure it was magic painted in silence, and friendship dipped in passion; so that she’ll know how she deserves to be treated, because sweetheart, respect does have a face. I’ll tell her of how a gentle touch can make even the fiercest walls come crashing down in melody; of how the night was too fleeting for me to continue melting under the moonlight; of how happy you made me; of how I didn’t want it all to end. But it did, like all great things do. And I’ll tell her it’s okay. Because you know what? Some tales are so beautiful they belong in closed journals, crawling along the pages, in between the ribcages of two damaged hearts. She’ll finally understand that her first love won’t necessarily be the one she’s crazy about, but it also won’t be her last; that time will kiss and fade and heal the scars, and someday she’ll find her slow dance. As the comfort of this hope softly lulls her to a dim sleep, she might ask me to stay and reveal the ending, but I won’t. Because that adventure is only ours to remember; because that truth is just ours to share, and that promise I made is mine to keep, and I always will. In the Rubik’s Cube, in my poems, in me.