The first time I called you holy
you laughed so hard your mother’s slaps
came tumbling out your throat.

Do you still remember the sun?
How it was to be an Atlas without the sky?

The space between my fourth and fifth rib
is the place we first drove drunk without the seatbelt on.
We knew the crash would come, but still
we ignored it.

And I admit, I was the first to cast the stone
then blame you for how the world ended,
but you brought us here. You brought us here.

What was it like before the weight on our shoulders?
Before our teeth were crushed by our own bite?
Do you still remember how it feels to not be holy?
Before you loved me?

Do you remember what it was like before the storm?

—Sade Andria Zabala, First Times