This piece is written as a follow up to a recent reflection on the first time I fell in love.
My second love floored me. I handed my heart into the palms of my best friend and there are no words to describe the feeling of him taking it and holding it in his scared, excited, inexperienced hands, promising to guard, nourish and protect it.
I know this love was unique, and I’ll never experience it again. The youthful naivety, fully expecting to live out our dreams, with unprecedented levels of absolute happiness.
The first real cut in my heart had just about healed before we ripped it open again. A harsh, jagged tear which I know will leave an ugly scar when it finally does starts to heal. I picture my heart when I handed it to him, and I picture it now, and I hope that one day I’ll be able to hand it over again. But I don’t imagine it’ll escape it’s tightly locked box for a while, and even if so, they’ll have to scale the walls before they reach it.