And what to do with the memories of your first love,
that bleed through the cracks of your present,
like morning light through shutters half-closed—
still there, in the taste of coffee,
a familiar touch that lingers on your skin,
as if their fingers learned the art of longing
and passed it on to another.

You hear their laugh in a crowded room,
catch the scent of their breath in a dish
you never quite learned to make as well as they did.
Her...