The last confession to the first love

People usually say we never forget our first love story. Lives or destinies are not the same so the lessons we must learn or the tears we must shed sometimes lay in the way we handle this first love.

I look up and smile slightly, as the words naturally syncs with the feelings and grimaces that come and go between us. You, my first love, are here, looking at me as I waited too long go. I know a single sign would be enough to rematch that perfect couple.  I read it in your eyes and I start smiling. The discrete gestures and touches tell me the old desire finally came true.

 

My eyelids are sometimes heavy, sometimes light, whispering that I should look at you more often, since you are finally close after so much time. I recall being a child discovering love with and next to you. I still feel the smell of raining days of May and the taste of Autumn tears that have sealed our fake love story. All these feelings and images sometimes strike me on some cold September mornings.

 

Instead, I fail to remember you. I don’t remember when was the first time you kissed me, I cannot feel again the thrill of my first night of love and, fortunately, I am not haunted every night by the heart pain I felt  watching you leaving for the last time.

 

On my face a bitterly, resigned look appears. You think I am a redoubt conquered many years ago that now will surrender again. This thought steal me a mysterious, sarcastic smile. I look away, then again at you. I start examining your eyes, your lips, your face and I begin remembering. Yes, I vaguely remember how much I loved you once. How much and desperately I asked you not to leave, thinking you’re the only half I’ve got.  How strange life is, isn’t it? How round and right it is on unpaid polices. You touch my hand and bashfully ask me if  I have forgiven you. And then I realize. Then I realize why I am here with you, yet so far away.

 

You are not The One. You are not the one who deserves my love, nor my tears, although I have unconditionally offered them to you once. This makes me guilty and absolves you of any fault. You are not to blame. I prayed too much to forget. Yes, you are going to laugh, but I desperately hoped that some day your image will completely vanish from my heart.  In my naive innocence I thought that was the only way I could stop from suffering. It seams now that fate unraveled all the threads I considered too complicated to understand, and made it somehow that our story whipped out here, on earth or there, in heaven.

 

Soon you will leave, thinking that tomorrow you will wait for me and I will come by all means. I and all the ones around you know this is not so. Many would say  I am finally revenged. Yes, maybe for some reasons I am. But strangely I cannot say happiness or sadness have come here to stay. Maybe because there is nothing left there..in our souls or lives or maybe because my oblivion was a wise one. I am happy that I prayed to forget. Otherwise, I would have stayed here, feeling for you a completely fake love. I would have agreed to continue a story that would have brought me much further from my real soul mate.

 

I yet thank you that somehow you shown me the right road to happiness. I thank you let off my hand when I needed you most and I thank you didn’t come to wipe my tears as I was dreaming so many times.

 

It’s time to say good-bye. Flashes of images, touches surround my soul again. Not for long. Just enough to bethink I am not longer allowed to halt next to you.

 

There are many who think we never forget our first love. Parts of that love remains in our love over the years, in spite of all the people we fall in love again. Well, I struggled so badly to forget about it, that it vanished completely from my mortal past. Nevertheless he shouldn’t complain. He wanted this ending, he forced me pray like this and his indifference helped me to succeed.

 

I turn around and walk slowly, yet firmly. I shouldn’t waste my time with old, berried and long forgotten love stories. The past that does not survive the time, shouldn’t be brought back in the present.

Author's Note

I have some Romanian short stories and essays that I would want to translate in English and then send them to literary agencies. Please let me know if you like this writing, in point of feelings, grammar etc.