First Post - First Love

Since this is my first post, I should put up something that fits the whole thing, right? I'm being lazy and am recycling my writings here. I don't care.

But first off. Thank you for reading the maiden post (is that the right phrase?) to my blog. I haven't posted on Blogger for over a year now.

For Wen Zhong.

I still can't remember your face.

First Love

Remembering now

Chasing shadows along sunlit paths

Playing hopscotch with pink wallets

Queuing up for ice cones in blistering heat

And he comes in

Loud and brash with a bright grin

Pulls your hair

Grabs your pencil case and runs off laughing

Just inviting you to follow

As a child

You don't understand the subtleties

Of the game you both play

And at the same time, you do.

Yelling, you give chase

Wishing he'd slow down and

Wishing he'd keep running so

You continue to follow.

Showing affection

Instead of hugs and kisses

You exchange kicks and taunts.

Complain when you sit next to him

But deep down

You know you're glad.

It takes a long time

Before you dare talk to him.

Talk. Not sneers and teasing but

An actual proper conversation.

Books. Television. Teachers

Friends, school. Random thoughts

That pop into your heads.

It's pleasant.

And all of a sudden

He's gone. Moved away. Transferred

So quickly regret sets in

Before comprehension does.

And one grey weekend

He calls you up. Out of the blue.

Tells you about his new book.

Stunned, you ask how he got your number.

It never occurs to you to ask for his

And he never calls you back.

It takes years

Time poured into studies and books

Growing up. Meeting new people.

Remembering and forgetting and

Forgetting about remembering

Until you forget the details

His face, his voice, the warmth of his hand.

But even still

You miss him.

End.

Everyone's got a story like this.

As posted in Facebook notes:

'Was inspired by a kicking session in the corridor just before Lit. I thought "This is so primary school." And then I spent Lit writing this.

It's partially true and partially isn't. I was P4, the whole "pencil case stealing hair pulling" never happened. But he as next to me for a term and seemed to be the only guy who talked to me as a person, and not some icky girl. Then he changed school - because he moved to the other side of the island I think. Last I heard he's not in Singapore anymore. It took me four years to realise I had a crush on him.

I like the poem. The subject anyway. And the memory; after all, nostalgia's best viewed from a distance. But it needs serious cleaning up. Criticisms welcome.'