I met the first one before I knew how to use a woman. When she and I walked and talked with our youth snug between us like a third wheel, I didn't know what a woman was good for in the traditional cro-magnon sense. We embraced each other in another time and place before I came to understand that flesh can be a trap, a choke collar leashing us to our caveman essence, a lie once told that can not be taken back, but can only be temporarily covered up by a lot of little white lies.
The child thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. The man can remember the feeling, but can't recapture it. We can look at toys, but we usually can't lose ours to them like when we were smaller.
Maybe, I should give myself some credit. Perhaps I'm not the only one who changed. Perhaps like any flower in the garden, she was bound to wilt. Why should i feel any guilt becuase once she was pert and full of pollen. If now she has venom, why should I accept fault? Why do I feel that I owe her something becuase once upon a time we were both wild and innocent?
Lost youth? Lost love? The turning of the solar system. I can't be blamed. I don't make the leaves turn during autumn.
It wasn't me.
It wasn't me?