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Etymology of First Love



On the side of the road is my favorite place,
Where I make wishes on the shooting stars of his voice.
And street lights moon dance across his face.

The heat of his breath paints the windows,
And our fingertips trace chaste memories into glass.
Watching eyes see but do not know.

As the clock strikes and the moments pass,
My heart takes photographs:
Still frames of us sitting in the dark.

Silence is so loud;
Unspoken words are said through closed mouths.
He is as humble as a pauper and I am too proud.

His smile makes me promise to never compromise
The heart on his sleeve or the truth in his eyes.
Innocence personified puts his hand in mine.

The ice breaks
A glimmer of emotion in a stoic life.
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Submitted on May 02, 2011

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Rachel Claim this poet

I can't write about myself in third person, so let's make this an autobiography.I'm Rachel. I'm a nineteen year old college student. And, well, I'm pretty boring. I'm awkward, and I'm selfish. I'm both too serious and too whimsical. I'm hundreds of conflicts contained in a girl. I've only had one real love and I've been head over heels since I was fourteen (He's too stubborn to leave). Most things I write have a little of him between the lines. I'm trying to find my way through growing up and constantly fighting my instincts to pack up and runaway. I think too much and terrify myself. Life scares me and sometimes I forget to live. Insomnia and feeling lost led me here (it also led me to start blogging: http://growinguplostgirl.blogspot.com/)I'm here to grow so please critique anything and everything I post. The structure of my poems would probably give my old high school English teachers a heart attack. My punctuation, or lack there of, probably wouldn't make them feel any better. I get that people are very protective of their creations, but you can tear mine to shreds, as long as you respect the emotions behind them. Harsh criticism wont make me sob into a pillow, promise. more…

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