A poem written by a teenage boy undergoing a first, painful lesson: that love abides, but sometimes not as you would wish it to.
I remember a love of a time past
not wholly passionate but just so:
a touch here and there of bright colour
but overall a soft, inspired illumination.
We kissed; maybe that was all.
Tears, sympathetic tears were few
and sudden surges of affection
mutated to some semblance of desire.
It’s over and done now, this sad business,
More worth now than ever then.
I am left with the disturbing curiosity of regret
and wandering thoughts of what it might have been.
J D Armstrong