Drunk on Something Softer

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Drunk on Something Softer

There are first loves that arrive without knocking.
They don’t ask if you’re ready. They don’t measure the space they will take.
They simply happen—and suddenly the world feels larger, brighter, dangerously alive.

Those loves feel immense, incomparable, final.
Not because they are perfect, but because you are unfinished when they find you.
They tilt your days. They soften the air. They teach your eyes a new way of seeing.
The streets look kinder. Time slows down. Even silence feels shared.

And it isn’t beauty in the cheap, fragile sense of appearances.
That kind of beauty is small and breaks easily.
The person you love is beautiful because they are a person:
because they complete a sentence you didn’t know you were writing,
because they give meaning to effort,
because they make you smile in the morning for no reason at all
and make you ache when they hurt, even when you can do nothing but stay.

They become motivation. Refuge. Mirror.
They give you your greatest joys—
and, as you grow, sometimes your deepest pains.
Only someone you truly love can do both.
Only love grants that kind of power.

First loves intoxicate, but not like wine.
They don’t blur the world. They sharpen it.
They don’t make things unreal. They make them unbearably vivid.
You’re not drunk on excess—you’re drunk on meaning, on connection,
on the terrifying sweetness of caring so much it rewires you.

And even when time passes, even when life complicates the story,
something remains.
A memory of being more alive than you had ever been before.
A quiet knowledge that, once,
you saw the world not as it was,
but as it could be.