unforced errors
In tennis,
Love means nothing.
Off the court,
It’s everything.
Tennis and love start the same—
Your pulse quickens, hands shake.
Your first high school match,
You lose the opening service game to love.
You would’ve felt less gutted
Had your opponent eviscerated you.
Tennis is a game
Of little lives and quiet deaths,
Each break point converted, electric—
Every winner a shock to the heart.
The points lost to careless mistakes internally bleed you,
Matches lost as a result of a million little cuts.
You could hold a eulogy
For each match lost,
Mourning them from the bleachers,
Hoping your team won’t feel the same loss.
The court slips away,
The way he did—
Your reach, no matter how fierce,
Falls short.
You swing, you miss—
The same way you lost him,
By fractions.
By fleeting moments.
By flaws you thought you could fix.
And when you walk off court,
It’s like leaving him again—
Bruised and breathless,
Haunted by points you’ll never win back.
The first time you fall in love,
He doesn’t stay.
And you carry it with you,
A soft ache beneath the skin,
Like the match you almost won
But couldn’t quite keep
In your hands.
Copyright © Braelyn Eaton | Year Posted 2025
|