First Love Poetry: Dipped in Ketchup and Served Hot

First love poetry starts with watching black and white television, rabbit ears wrapped in tin foil, which makes me hungry for fish sticks.

If you’d let me,
I would dip your heart in ketchup
and pretend we had a love that was innocent,
served hot with mac ‘n’ cheese.

Back Alley Adventures

I’m going to sell my car
so I can ride bikes with you
in the back alleys of neighborhoods
yet to be developed.
The only HOA conditions?
That the landscaping exist
only in our imaginations.

I’m in ninth grade again,
my face breaking out with pimples of infatuation.
I want to cut class so you will teach me
how to fold notebook paper in the shape of swans.

Watching From a Distance

If I was more confident,
I would kiss you.
But watching you from a distance
makes me love you more.

I keep all of your notes in a shoe box.
I think they will be fun to read aloud at our wedding.
I pray that you do the same.

Quarterbacks and Creativity

I look forward to laughing about that silly time
when you thought the quarterback was a good guy.
Would you like me more
if my creativity were wrapped in leather
and thrown to you from 30 yards away?

Remember that time I was smoking a cigarette?
I’ve never seen you more mad.
I have never smoked since.
Instead, I inhale every word you speak to me.
I’m addicted to the person I hope you are.

Three Digits Away

I drink too much
because I know you will take care of me.
My words are slurred,
but your eyes speak clearly.
I’m glad that you are kind.

I have perfected combination locks.
One day you will need help with your locker.
I will be ready.
Our love is only three digits away.

I bring extra Teddy Grahams to lunch every day.
I know they are your favorite.
When being “cool” does not determine where I eat my food,
I will share them.

What First Love Teaches

First love poetry is awkward and earnest.
It doesn’t know what it’s doing.
That’s what makes it honest.

The sophisticated love poems come later,
after you’ve learned what not to say,
after you’ve been hurt enough to be careful.

But there’s something in the unguarded version
that the careful version can never capture.
The willingness to look foolish.
The belief that love will work out
because you want it to badly enough.

First love poetry is dipped in ketchup
and served with whatever was in the cafeteria that day.
It’s not elegant. It’s not sophisticated.
But it’s real. And real counts for something.