They say the first love's most important. That's very romantic, but not my experience. Something was and wasn't there between us, something went on and went away. My hands never tremble when I stumble on silly keepsakes and a sheaf of letters tied with string — not even ribbon. Our only meeting after years: two chairs chatting at a chilly table. Other loves still breathe deep inside me. This one's too short of breath even to sigh. Yet just exactly as it is, it does what the others still can't manage: unremembered, not even seen in dreams, it introduces me to death.