manic depressives make good lovers. half of the time

she thinks about the day they met
with every detail she can
hold in her tiny hands.

the radiohead drifting in from
open bedroom door
the clouds of hookah smoke
the hot chocolate laced with
liquid courage
the hour it took her to
say hello
the five seconds it took
her to scald his leg with
"i've clearly already had enough to drink"

the weeks after are more
fuzzy
the late nights blurring into
early mornings
never sure which was which
until the sun interrupted
she never understood how they
made the night go away
so quickly

like he was on dub speed
the words faster
than chipmunks
but she always remembered
them
the next day
would write him into plays

and that's how she
remembers him
now
she forgets all of
the things that hid
behind the haze
of first love

the days without a call
the nights she couldn't
recognize him
because the bottle was too empty again
the apologies left with kisses
on discolored arm skin
the dna left on the
note she could never
bear
to open
the semester it took to
recover
from having nothing else
left of him

five years
and even though the
glue has come undone
on its own, she still
will not open it

if she did
she might have to
remember him
for who he really was
and what good are first loves
that way?