There was nothing wrong with the first.

There was something wrong with us—

Then that thing didn’t go away by the
second, third—

Then we’re in middle school on the rebound,
slow-dancing with the wrong one,

pouting ‘cause we got it wrong.

The cry is so hidden, though—we are
deceived to thinking we’re right!

Like Thieves in the night, we dance and
celebrate wrong, raising and tilting
glasses back like pimps.

We found a large crew to do wrong with
us, so in this majority we felt right;

We drank enough, and felt right.

We carried on without guide, thought
“Mrs.” Right was maybe behind door
number five… When really, she is still

Behind number one.

Blessed is the wife of our youth.

Rejoice in her, the Bible says—and a curse
to those who offend her.

All songs danced to without her is
blasphemy against blessing, all lust away
from her is a fulfillment of curse.

The only way to stop the rebound is to
stop taking outside shots.

Go back to the First, apologize and stop
shooting altogether.

Love.