Première fois.

‘I love first times. I want my whole life to be composed of them.’

Let another morning come,
beginnings are a drug
that can never keep giving.
I inject its nectar into my eyes,
sprouting fruits of inceptions,
and dawns of introductions that stretch
out into a horizon of the first light,
on an April day. Starts sing opening instrumentals
in chimes of new greens and silky blues.
My masterpiece is my first encounter.
Chiselled impressions are fixed into my frosted eyes,
and the words that drip out like chains of lyric
bend round, into a circle, fearing a break,
dreading a space that could lead to a middle, or end.

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