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I remember the first,
the non-crush, or
so I thought
(quite sure of that),
both over twenty
and no kisses
(too religious),
maybe hug or two,
one dinner and backrub
(clothed, of course)
causing uneasiness.
She met another,
she said she preferred.
I spoke of love,
freed, perhaps returning.

Years later, she
tracked me down
still feeling bound
because I had loosed her.
I set her free again, and now
twenty years it’s been and (wow!)
Still, I love the child
she birthed for me
in there somewhere,
born of chastity,
this little daughter,
my first poem.

]Over at dVerse we are writing about out first…something..care to join or make a toast?[

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