How could I forget the first set of eyes that looked at my flaws with admiration?

The loud beat of my heart is still there even if the daily stares aren’t. It’s the end that clung to my existence like ivy.

First times are hard to forget, but last times are hard to mend.

I would answer, “That one overcast Thursday…” with sunny orbs when you ask me what makes my pillowcase collapse its threads. I’ve been pressed to not welcome the wet liquid from my eyes falling from the silk; I just wanted to spoil my hands this time by letting me see scratches of how that fluent soul made my flaws eloquent.

In every lyric, all I read is his compliments with the sound of love. In every picture, all I see is a studio full of his faces with the look of love. In every perfume I smell, all I smell is his breath, kissing me with love. In every downtime, all I feel is his presence trying to dominate my stressors. In every place, all I go to is his favorite spot—the sky being color graded by the strokes of gold and crimson.

In every detail I remember from a decade ago, my love never forgot them.

The room in the corner of my house is still there—open for anyone who tries to glance. No padlock was made just in case someone wants to stay with their blankets.

I do not see any mistakes lost from any parts of my body now. But I wonder why this perfection feels a little bit empty. Until I visited that room…I felt a reserved presence forbidding strangers to reside.

And that’s when I knew I only opened my door, but never let anyone inside if it isn’t the person who surprised me with first times and took my ability to love on the epilogue.