I am glad it cannot happen twice, the fever of first love. For it is a fever, and a burden, too, whatever the poets may say. They are not brave, the days when we are twenty-one. They are full of little cowardices, little fears without foundation, and one is so easily bruised, so swiftly wounded, one falls to the first barbed word.
We feel so vulnerable, so small and so insecure.
Trying to decode all their behaviours, rethinking and overthinking all yours... It's maddening and exhausting.
