Writers 
O first love,
I thought men could not be beautiful
until I saw you.
Then suddenly beauty wore a face,
and I found it in the curve of your smile,
the gentleness of your voice,
and the quiet light you carried wherever you went.
Your beauty was so captivating,
it drew me to you
like a moth to a flame.
Yet it was not beauty alone that drew me near,
but kindness, generosity, and warmth as well,
the sort of warmth that asks for nothing in return
yet leaves a mark upon every heart it touches.
I gathered meaning from your smallest gestures,
turning passing kindness
into promises you never made,
finding constellations in ordinary moments
and calling them signs.
Even then, I knew you were never meant to be mine,
for your gaze never lingered upon me
longer than it did
upon anyone else.
I was merely another face within the crowd,
another passing soul beneath your sky.
It hurt, yet I could do nothing but accept it.
Some truths arrive softly,
yet ache all the same.
Even so, I do not regret loving you.
How could I regret the season
that taught my heart how to bloom?
Thank you for teaching my heart what love is,
for letting me know that I, too, am capable of loving,
for showing me parts of myself
I never knew existed.
Before you,
I did not know my heart could carry such tenderness,
or that another person's happiness
could matter so much to me.
Though your heart never turned toward mine,
I thank you still.
Through loving you,
I learned how deeply I could feel,
how fiercely I could hope,
and how gracefully a heart can break
without losing its capacity for love.
And so I leave you with gratitude,
not sorrow.
I carry no bitterness,
only the quiet memory of what once was.
And I hope you find someone
who loves you the way you wish to be loved,
someone who sees every beautiful thing within you
and chooses it, every day.
For if anyone deserves such love,
it is you,
my first love.
