seventy-eight: timothy.

timothy. east village. april 2012.

I always cry at endings…

Timothy was my first true love. I was 21 years old. You never get over your first entirely, you never quite forget them and when they end up in the same city as you, miles from the New Hampshire sticks you both knew, you can’t help but wonder. I no longer wonder.

First loves are meant to stay in the past and just out of view… along with words you’ve yet to understand and artwork you’ve yet to dissect and swallow. Timothy was an artist. Timothy is an artist. Timothy left early Monday morning to move faraway.

When he texted to tell me, I cried. When he called to make sure I was OK, I cried even harder. And when he appeared at my door, disheveled as always, shrugging his shoulders in the same awkward but darling way that he did at 21, I cried until I thought I’d be sick.

I have mistakenly allowed others in my life to take the title I had once given Timothy: “my great love.” But I was wrong to give that adjective out to others; Timothy, with a heart that is nothing but pure and intentions that are nothing but gallant, is the only one who deserves that distinguishing factor in any story I write… the rest of them were something, but nothing special.

Although this song and this album became far more equated with someone else later on in my life, it was Timothy who gave me this record, and with him that I first learned to jump on my bed to Belle and Sebastian.

It’s an end of an era.

I’ll say it again: I always cry at endings…

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