It's dangerous how one person can ignite the fire of your spirit, then turn around and stomp it out.
It was my music that made her want to catch my rhythm. With her friends, she watched me in front of an auditorium of nodding heads and tapping fingers, or across a room of writhing bodies.

"That guy's pretty cute."

It was my senior year of high school. The cool late summer, when we met, yielded to the bitter Chicago winter, where we shared the warmth of each other's arms and lips. I fell for her charm and her beauty.

We discovered that we were different than our initial impressions of each other. She found that I was caring. Innocent. Intelligent. Loving. Articulate. Loyal. I found that she was clever. Sensual. Sharp. Emotional. Crafty.

In love with her first love.

He shared our school, her classes, her attention, and her affection. My friends warned me of the consequences, but I couldn't understand. I was in love with her. I would've done anything for her.

Her love for her own first love was a friction between us whose heat slowly grew over the year until it sparked the explosion of my anger.

May 1995. She left me, then wanted me back. I resisted, even dated another girl. Even today, I feel sorry that my ulterior motives were to arouse her jealousy and irritation.

We soon reconnected. The last month and a half of that summer in Chicago were beautiful. She loved me. I forgave. She appreciated me. That made all the trouble worthwhile.

I remember the night of graduation vividly. The blue gown draped over my shoulders, my cap thrown into the audience not long before. The auditorium was emptying. I found her. She was crying. We hugged for what seemed like forever and I wiped the tears from her eyes. She told me that she loved me.

I believed.

Three weeks before, she answered a burning question after my final concert - did she really love me? Between then and graduation, she wrote an addendum to that answer in my yearbook: "After the band concert? Always."

We had sex two weeks before I left for New York. It was a first for both of us. It was awkward and interrupted. I wish it could've gone differently. Wish we had known better. Wish we could have tried again.

She was with me the night before I left. We packed together. I left the next morning to begin a new life.

She would send me e-mails, cards, and letters telling me that she missed me, that she loved me. Soon, though, she reconnected with her first love. Just two months after I left for Babylon, they were together, they were strong, and they were making love.

She told him that we never had.

The craftiness resurfaced.

Fast forward. August 1996 sent her to NYC and her beau to Paris. I was strongly with another who knew all about her. She would call our apartment. Strain my new relationship. Rekindle my memories, which aroused both deep love and intense anger. Why was she doing this?

I witnessed the full strength she had for her first love when she left for Paris at the end of that semester.

And now, it seems that I only hear from Karen when she wants something. Fall 1998. Her voice mail informed me that she had returned to New York but was now homeless. A week until the dorm, she said. Still reeling from the recent end of a two-and-a-half year relationship, I reluctantly told her she could stay.

That night, I saw her for the first time in almost two years. Still beautiful, but now with funkier clothes and too much makeup. Parisian influence?

I left the city for the weekend so I wouldn't have to deal with her or myself.

It seemed like she wanted to make amends when she took me to dinner a couple of weeks later, but I haven't heard from her since. Part of me says "good" - it makes my life simpler when she isn't in it.

On the other side of the coin, I may deny it, but in spite of all the invisible wounds, my heart will always hold a place for her. Eyes closed, I can still recall how our soft, tangled embrace made my heart burn.

It's a dangerous innocence of mine.

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