Summer fields.

It happens with every girl you love. The first moment alone, summer light, holding her close on the rumpled bed. These kisses are new, these lips have never touched before. Her breath, somehow you compare it to that of the other girls and at that moment there is no comparison. She’s here now and real and it might be love, you want to say it’s love so you do. You love her.

Her hair, you remember her hair. Not so perfect now, it dangles like the overgrowth of southern trees. Whispers muffled, she lifts herself up enough to pull her shirt off over her head and with two crooked arms, she twists her bra off and there it is. What is forever hidden is now yours to see. And at this moment disappointment sets in because, you, because I, want this moment to be important, moving towards a powerful future, and all you (I) can think of is, “How many other boys have had this experience with her?” You might be number seven. Higher. Lower. You are not the first and likely not the last.

This moment, however exciting and monumental it is, is truly not unique. You question your love for her, if it is there or if it is growing. You assume. You feel. You assume she wants you. You assume she feels something for you. You assume because you want it to be real enough to actually be a moment and here it is, another example of mindless giving away of yourself and you never wonder if she’s thinking the same things about you.

For every girl you love, you pray it is your last. That every experience together brings her closer to you. She understands and digs deeper into you, wanting to be your light, and you hers. In this modern world, these ideas are romantic and out of date. Love like this died long before you were born. We've let go of our spirit, our souls, so only our bodies are left and without that anchor tethering us to something higher, we are free to roam the earth, it being made of dirt and rock until we too are nothing but dirt and rock. Nothing entirely unique.