Blame

I blame you. For feeling that great love has to leave me deflated. I blame you. For feeling that great love must come with great sacrifice. I blame you. For thinking that great love must encompass great obsticles. I blame you. For thinking of great love in terms of Romeo and Juliet. Because, your first love, that very first time, will be with you always. Will color you always. Will be your measuring stick always. My first, spun me around so fast that I never really landed properly on the ground. My first, took me around the globe, and then back again. My first, had jet-black hair, pale skin and brown eyes. He spoke another language. He decended from half a world away. He had gold in his pen and fire in his hands. We left everything for us. We left our nations. Our contexts. The ones we loved. Just because we could´nt not. Because the one was not possible without the other. How does one proceed from such a starting point? How does one find everyday love to be enough? How is average ever going to cut it? I don´t know. I just send my questions out into the void.